by L. J. Martin
I know we’re pressing our luck, chucking terrorists overboard. That won’t fly for long. Where the fuck is the Marine Corps?
The President of the United States is at his desk in the oval office. On the two upholstered sofas in the center of the room are perched the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Military Service Chiefs from the Army, Marine Corps, Navy, and Air Force. In addition, the Director of Homeland Security, the CIA, and of the FBI are in attendance.
“What’s next?” the President asks.
“May I?” General Robert ‘Butch’ McKniffin, Commandant of the Marine Corps, asks.
“Shoot,” the President replies.
McKniffin turns to the Navy admiral at his left, “Correct me if wrong, Jack, but the majority of the Sixth Fleet is all the way across the Med off the coast of Turkey, putting on the show to discourage Iran from moving against the Turks. NATO flexing their muscle, and we are their muscle.”
McKniffin continues, “Mister President, Task Force 62 is the nearest combat-ready ground force composed of a Marine Expeditionary Unit of approximately eighteen hundred Marines. Transported in Task Force Sixty-One ships. The unit is equipped with armor, artillery, and transport helicopters that enable it to conduct operations ashore or off or evacuate civilians from troubled areas. They are stationed in Italy. We can move on this cruise ship in three days, maybe less, given Jack’s transport.”
The president shakes his head. “Gentlemen, there are not only Americans aboard the Blue, but citizens of at least six other countries, a dozen or more if you include the crew. Even if we were willing to risk American lives, we must think twice before risking the lives of citizens of other countries. So how do we accomplish this with the smallest possible loss of life?”
Again, it is McKniffin who speaks up. “SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team Two based at Little Creek, Virginia, is already en route to Gibraltar, with the acquiescence of Rear Admiral Jeremy Sanderson, commander of British Forces Gibraltar. The Virginia Class sub SSN-794 Montana is steaming for Gibraltar at the moment and will be ready to move near the Blue Pearl in less than twenty-four hours. Those SDVs are the small underwater boats, Mister President.”
“Once they’re in position and the team of twelve SEALs on three SDVs have deactivated any explosive devices, we can follow up with a deploy via chopper and put an overwhelming force aboard.”
35
The President looks doubtful. “So, you don’t believe they have done what this contact aboard says they’ve done. Explosives?”
It’s the Director of the CIA who speaks up. “We were watching this potential situation and have a man, actually an FBI liaison, from the London LEGAT office. He's FBI but special liaison to the CIA. He and his assistant are aboard, as you know. He’s an experienced operative and still in touch via SAT phone. It’s his belief that it is likely they have what they say they have. We eliminated the use of four pounds of plastic so far but feel there may be lots more. And the Blue Pearl is a dual-fuel ship. Many hundreds of cubic yards of LPG are aboard. It won’t take much of a charge to set off a secondary that would level half of Malaga were she in port. And we don’t know what this small freighter standing off her starboard side is all about. Our man says that ship, with Arabic markings, deployed a large number of terrorists aboard. Maybe as many as three dozen, but she’s standing by. We don’t know if there’re more bodies aboard and if so, how the ship's armed. We were on to her earlier, but it appears they have renamed, repainted, and reconfigured her deck houses. They did a good job throwing us off. We’re working on the origin of this obviously Arab ship. So, maybe she’ll be taking hostages or maybe they intend to blow the Blue Pearl all to hell with all on board.”
The President is silent for a moment, then asks, “I understand there’s someone else on board who’s in touch with us?”
McKniffin, the Marine, gives a low laugh. “Former Marine Warrant Officer, sniper qualified, Michael Reardon. Actually, I stayed close to his General Discharge from the Corps years ago…”
“General?” the President asks.
“Administrative General Discharge, sir. Not an honorable, not a dishonorable. He was in Iraq and killed a Major General in their Iraqi Army and a few others.”
“Wait,” the President says, then questions, “not a dishonorable?”
“Extenuating circumstances. These Iraqi’s were stoning two young female members of their own family. They fired on him first, and he followed the rules of engagement at the time—ludicrous as they were. Reardon was a squad leader who took a little umbrage at this so-called rite of honor. He was quietly drummed out.”
“And killed them?” the President mumbles.
“And is not apologetic, sir.”
“So, can he be useful?” the President asks.
Again, McKniffin chuckles. “Mister President, if what I’ve read of his activities since, mercenary work, including some work for the CIA, is true. The guy is a wrecking ball. In fact, he’s been in and out of Russia and North Korea—in Russia with some NATO involvement, and in North Korea to extract that NK ambassador no one has talked about. Happened under the prior administration. There are also some other retired military types aboard, including Marine Corps General Bull Toliver retired, and a Brit, a former SAS major. Alistair somebody. But reading his background, he’s no Alice. A real bad ass, pardon the term.” The President merely shrugs, so McKniffin continues.
“I’d be surprised if those boys aren’t getting ready to take some terrorists with them, even if they all go down with the ship.”
The President shakes his head. “Let’s make sure those on board, most my age, stand down and let the young proven capable SEAL team handle this. There are more than five hundred lives at stake, and I don’t want the loss of five hundred lives to be my legacy.”
All in the room agree and nod.
“Get back to me when our SEAL team is in position, and we’ll see what’s transpired.”
“Yes, sir,” they all say in unison, and file out.
Mumin Amir is in Captain Von Groot’s plush office, across the captain’s desk sits Akim Musa, who enjoys the title of Colonel in Al-Shabaab, and is in command of the squad delivered to the Blue Pearl by the Bit Tawfīq. They speak in Arabic.
Mumin eyes him and is not smiling. “Akim Musa, this is my operation and you will not give orders to me or my fellows. It would take all day to deliver one meal to the suites. The men will eat from the kitchen on the pool deck where they can be easily watched from above. The women will be seated in the main restaurant. It may take two servings, but the food will be simple and not to order,” he laughs at that, but it’s now Musa’s turn not to smile.
Akim gives Mumin a hard look, his voice angry. “I am missing two men I sent to bring the American General here so we can make an example of him. His cabin is 718. Go see what is detaining them.”
Mumin is so angry, spittle flies as he speaks. “I am not your man, Akim Musa. I am my own man and the blessed Prophet Mohammad’s. Do you see this?” he holds out a controller almost in Musa’s face. “This will vaporize this ship and all on it. So, unless you’re ready to be a martyr, as I am, then it’s you who will go and see what detains your men. And you will not speak down to me again. This is my operation, and I am in command. Do you understand?”
Musa stares at the controller for a moment, then shrugs. “The sheik said you were a hard man, but a faithful one. I and my men will do as you say, unless I deem you are making an error, then I must interfere.”
“I do not make mistakes, Akim, Musa. Go find what’s happened to your men. I have two men on each cabin floor, at each end of the hallways. You will have your men take three six-hour shifts to spell them. I’m waiting for contact from both the Crimson Cruise Line and the American government. We will begin loading the freighter as soon as I make the sheik’s demands. We will take as many hostages as we can carry on the freighter. The rest will be left aboard, all the Jews, to find their way
to hell. It will be our greatest victory since the Twin Towers.”
“Then let’s feed them.” Musa says. “It will give them false hope,” then retracts his order, “If you are ready, of course. Women to the restaurant. Men to the area around the pool.”
“That’s right. We can station men at the railings above the pool and it will be easy to watch and less risk of the infidels trying something. Go now. I will inform the kitchen to prepare something simple that will feed all.”
Musa disappears out of the office. Mumin picks up a SAT phone and walks out of the office, down the hall away from the office and out a side door. SAT phones only work where you can see the sky.
It’s time to make demands. He dials a number he has already programed into the phone. The call is to Sally Ann Maddison, Chargé d’Affaires at the U.S. Mission to Libya, in Tunis. He enjoys talking down to an American and a lowly woman.
The receptionist says she’s busy and will return his call.
He’s silent for a moment, then says in a quiet voice. “This is Mumin Amir aboard the American cruise ship Blue Pearl. I am a soldier of the Prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him, and have four hundred Americans as hostages. If my demands are not met in ten hours, I will begin killing one every ten minutes. Are you sure your American bitch is too busy to talk with me?”
“One second, sir.”
In only ten seconds, the Chargé d’Affaires is on the line. “Who are you?” she asks, without bothering with hello.
“Mumin Amir, a soldier of Allah. I am aboard the American cruise ship Blue Pearl with six hundred passengers and crew, mostly infidel Americans. Do you have a pen or is this call being recorded?”
“Go ahead, Mister Amir.”
36
“Five hundred million dollars in gold will be delivered to a place of my instruction beginning in ten hours from the termination of this call.”
“All right. But that’s a lot of money, Mister Amir. Obviously, I don’t have the authority to agree and certainly not to begin delivering, even if we had one hundredth that amount here at the mission. And five hundred million? I’m sure it’s impossible.”
“Woman, I did not expect you to have any authority. Talk to whoever does and call me…have them call me…back on this SAT phone. Now, listen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you do not comply with my demands, I will kill a passenger every ten minutes, beginning at midnight tonight, that’s ten hours. Do you clearly understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get to work.”
And he disconnects, looks at his watch, and laughs. It’s now 2:00 p.m. his time which means it’s 8:00 a.m. in Washington, D.C. The lazy Americans will probably not yet have had their coffee. Now there will be many with stomachs too upset to take a cup.
As soon as he’s checked his watch, he dials another number, and this time the answer is in Arabic.
“My Sheik, now.”
“Who is this?”
“Mumin Amir, and I need to speak to my Sheik.”
Harry Weinstein, Drummond on board, has been on and off his SAT phone since the first announcement came over the ship intercom. His last call resulted in him being instructed to comply and to inform the wild card, Mike Reardon, and any others he suspects might be rebels, to stand down, as a SEAL team is on the way. Harry was forced to tell the Director of both the CIA and FBI that he was not sure the ship wouldn’t be destroyed with the first indication of a SEAL incursion, but both insisted the President was adamant to let the teams handle the problem.
Harry’s two-bedroom suite, which he shares with Angelina Lara, on Deck Eight, has a number of good hiding places for their phone and weapons. However, they were moved at Cadiz to a small suite—both Glocks are now in pots under artificial plants—and the short hallway on the pool deck has only one guard. Even at over sixty years of age, Harry thinks he could take the pissant guard, and wishes he’ll have the opportunity to give it a try.
He is bemoaning the fact to Angelina when the next announcement rings throughout the ship, “You will now be fed. Men report to the pool deck, women to the restaurant. Women remember to cover yourselves. Be out of your cabins in ten minutes.”
Harry eyes her, “God speed. Don’t get caught.” He has only a short walk out to the pool. Angelina moves out to the veranda, praying she can hear the terrorists as they search one of the cabins on either side. Then she’ll know which way to go. She pulls off the low heels she wears, figuring she can negotiate swinging around the petition far better in bare feet. Then waits.
Simone and Patty have been madly cleaning the blood from the carpet and wall of the bedroom. They finally give up and remove the only throw rug in the suite from under the living room coffee table to cover the bedroom carpet blood spots with it. It looks very clumsy as it is up against a wall, not spaced out as a normal throw rug would be, but it will have to do. They have just thrown blood-soaked bath towels overboard and are in the bathroom washing their hands. They hold their breath as their suite door is suddenly swung open and smashes against the wall. They hurry into the living room and a terrorist, this one slightly gray and stooped with a pockmarked face, enters. He wears a sidearm and carries an ugly rifle with a long magazine.
“I am Colonel Musa. Lie to me and you die. Have you seen my men? Two men were stationed on this floor?” he demands.
Both girls are taken aback but remember to keep their eyes down as Reardon had instructed.
Simone recovers from another threat of death first. “No, sir," she lies with some expertise. "You’re the first man we’ve seen since two terro…” She decides to change her description of the men who’d taken Bryan and Terry away—the same men who returned and tried to rape them. “…soldiers came and took our…our brothers away.” She knows Muslims would chastise them or worse if they knew four unmarried and unrelated people, of different sexes, are sharing the same suite most of every day.
Simone gets a chill as the Colonel looks her up and down, as she is barefoot and barelegged in her bathrobe. But he merely snarls. “Did you hear anything…anything unusual outside?”
“No, sir. We were called to eat and are very hungry. May we go now?”
“Go,” he snaps, then walks from room to room checking, and stomps out.
They take a quick sponge bath with washcloths, dress appropriately, and hurry out to eat. As they enter the restaurant, the male guard at the main door continues to chastise the line of women.
“No talking. You will not be fed if you talk.”
It is ‘serve yourself’ with canned soft drinks, water, and juice. Plates are piled beside flatware and serving trays are filled with pasta. The only attempt at variety is half the pasta has white sauce and half marinara. The female guard who’d called herself Alia stands near the serving line. A male guard stands at the main entrance door and one each at the doors that lead outside to the deck.
Simone can't help but find it amusing that the room is filled with Frank Sinatra songs at a high volume.
“Jesus,” she says to Patty, “elevator music.”
“No talking!” the female guard yells at her. Patty eyes her, then remembers what Reardon had told her. Keep your head and eyes down. She fills her plate, grabs a canned diet Coke, takes two rolls, and finds a seat.
No one talks.
Men file out to the pool deck from forward and aft. I’ve climbed the stairway and manage to fall in beside Master Sergeant Elroy Filson and Master Chief Willy Porter and notice that the SAS guy who’s introduced himself as Nelson is only a few feet behind us. As we shuffle out onto the deck surrounding the pool, I manage to get him closer and to voice a low, “stay with me,” and he does.
Walking through the doors leading outside, we’re cautioned by a guard. “Talk and you’ll be shot and fed to the sharks.” He keeps repeating it and I wonder if that’s all the English he’s been taught.
As soon as we are outside, I do a quick recon. There are six armed hostiles with automatic weapons on t
he pool level, and on the walkways of the deck above, four are stationed at each edge of the overwatches. They’re alert, continually scanning the men below with weapons.
Trays full of pasta rest on both the bar and a serving area on the far side of the deck. Barrels with soft drinks and some with bread rolls flank the pasta. We queue up and fill plates and I try and space myself as far from guards as I can, then plop down on the deck with my back against the rail. The nearest guards are forty feet forward and aft.
As soon as we’re all seated on the deck, I cough and cover my mouth and ask though my fingers, “Show of fingers, what floor you on?”
Each of them spreads fingers on the deck. Filson is on four, Porter on five, I’m on six, and Nelson is on seven. Perfect as eight is the only floor without a military guy, although we certainly haven’t met all among the over three hundred passengers.
We eat a while, then I do the cough trick again. “I can isolate each floor, so we only have two guards each to deal with.”
I get curious looks from each of them, but a guard is passing, patrolling around the pool, so it’s shut-up time. When he’s at the furthest distance he’ll reach, I cough and cover again. “Fire-doors. Just after dark. Be ready to clear your floors.”
37
I get a nearly imperceptible nod from each one of them. I’ve got to take that as a commitment to act.
As we’re ordered to return to our suites and being escorted by guards—I’ve now counted even more as sixteen have appeared and are being fed—I’m disturbed to see the junk freighter is again coming alongside. Is he offloading more hostiles or loading something?
When I get back to our suite, I’m a little concerned that Connie has not yet returned.
Mumin had only been disconnected from his phone call with Sheik Ali Hassan for a half hour. Hassan, the head of the snake. The airstrip can accommodate his Citation Jet, thanks to the American company Interco Petroleum. Interco had constructed the airport for their own use.