Deadly Cargo: A chilling naval terrorism thriller

by Rich Johnson

  “What do the pirates do?” Cadee asked as the girls walked back up the beach and slipped into their sandals.

  “They steal everything. I have been told that they even steal children, then sell them. And if you try to stop them, they will kill you. They have machetes and guns, and they have no soul.”

  Cadee was quiet for a moment, thinking about all this. She looked into the eyes of her new friend, then wrapped her arms around her again. “Thank you for warning me. This is a very serious matter, and I will tell all this to my father. I promise.”

  “Tell your mother and your brother, too. They all must know of the danger. I do not want anything bad to happen to your family.”

  “I will,” Cadee whispered as they hugged.

  “You will be in my prayers every night and every morning,” Maria Elena promised.

  “And you will be in mine,” Cadee agreed. “If we pray for each other, we should be able to stay out of trouble, don’t you think?”

  “I believe that will help,” Maria Elena said. “Now, I must hurry to my lessons. God be with you.” The young Cuna girl turned and ran into the cluster of palms, clutching her hands to her face, hiding the tears.

  “And with you,” Cadee said under her breath, as she waved at the spot where her friend had disappeared through the foliage.

  Chapter Seven

  “So, you’re heading for the Rio Dulce?” Sven Nielsen was the proprietor of the closest thing to a store on Ychutupu island, a crossroads for cruising sailors passing through this tropic archipelago. The store was just a large palm-thatched hut, blending perfectly with local architecture, but a rough sign hung out front that read ‘Viking Mall’. Sven had been in the San Blas for twenty-two years, after leaving his native Denmark on a 32-foot ketch, with a dream of sailing around the world. He got this far, looked around and decided he’d gone as far as he needed to go. Why go looking for paradise when I’m already here? he reasoned.

  “Yeah, that’s the plan,” Dan Plover nodded as he laid his list on the counter. “We need to stock up on a few more things before we get so far up the jungle river that we can’t get back for a re-supply. Nicole hates running out of stuff like toothpaste and floss,” Dan smiled.

  “If it were me,” – Sven looked up from the list – “I’d wait a while before leaving.”

  Dan forgot about the list and looked at the tall Dane. “Sounds like you’re trying to tell me something.”

  “I know your Gemini is a good, seaworthy boat, and she rides nice and comfortable on the water, being a cruising catamaran, but I still wouldn’t risk it with the storm. Especially with a family on board.”

  “What storm?” Dan asked. “I must have missed something.

  “Well, there is no storm yet. Maybe there won’t be one.”

  A tone of concern was in Dan’s voice. “I thought most of the tropical storms this time of year were farther east and north.”

  “That is true. But this is a quirky time of year, and you just never know.”

  “So, if there’s no storm, what are you worried about?”

  “I’ve been here, let’s see …” – he stared at the ceiling and started counting on his fingers – “… what year is it anyway? I tend to lose count. Oh yeah, I got it. I’ve been here twenty-two years, and in that time I’ve kept track of the bad blows that swept through the area where you’re heading. Right here, we’re far enough south to be out of the storm track, but farther north you could get hammered. I’m just saying I wouldn’t go right now. But you know what they say about advice: it’s free, and maybe it’s worth what you pay for it.”

  “No, no, no.” Dan waved off Sven’s comment. “Local knowledge is worth a ton, and anybody who ignores it deserves all the grief that comes to him.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Swen said, “but there have been some huge late-season storms in this area before. They’re not the norm, but they do happen every once in a while. Myself, I like to lay low from the 1st of June to the end of November. Just kind of hide out and plan my long-range sailing for the winter.”

  “Hey,” Dan said, “your daughter Kirsten didn’t put you up to this just to keep Jacob around, did she?”

  “Heh-heh,” Sven chuckled. “That girl of ours has taken a liking to your boy. Normally, I’d be more than a little worried about something like that, being a protective dad and all. But you folks have been here for nearly three months now and I’ve come to know your Jacob pretty well. He’s a fine lad. Good upbringing, I’d say. And Kirsten is a good girl with solid values, so I don’t worry too much about them. They’re more friends than anything.”

  “When we left Seattle, Jacob was barely 14,” Dan said. “He used to help us at the clinic. He seemed to have a good rapport with the young students who were struggling to learn sign language. When we first got the clinic going, Nicole and I practiced sign all the time around the house, and Jake picked it up. Then later on, he got involved with us after school, teaching our younger students, and he never had time to go on a date. In fact, he hated girls back then. Well, maybe he didn’t really hate them. Guys just talk like that, but he had no real interest in girls until now.”

  Sven nodded. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that he does have an interest now.”

  Both men nodded, and Dan turned to look out the door at the crystal blue cove. “A healthy interest, I’d say. But I don’t know how interested Kirsten is.”

  Sven stepped around from behind the counter. “You can imagine what it’s been like for Kirsten, growing up here on the islands. Her only friends are the Cuna and a few kids who have passed through the area on their way to someplace else. Kids come and go so fast that she has learned to be very careful not to let her heart get away from her. Friendships come easily to her, but then they tend to disappear over the horizon just as easily.”

  “Same with Jacob,” Dan said. “Then along comes Kirsten. It’s still just a great friendship, but I can see the possibilities.”

  “Good thing these kids of ours have a strong foundation,” Sven said.

  “Yeah, Kirsten has been out to our boat a couple of times. Jake’s been teaching her sign language, and she seems to be picking it up real well. The kids go snorkeling together, and they always invite Cadee to go with them. It’s great to see them all get along so well together. Talk about good upbringing, I’d say you and Grendel have done a great job.”

  “She’s a good wife, my Grendel,” Sven beamed. “Never thought I’d meet somebody like her way out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “That was pretty lucky, I’d say. And to think a gorgeous blonde Swede like that gave up her own dreams of a solo circumnavigation just to settle down with the likes of you.” Dan jabbed the big Dane on the shoulder with his fist.

  “Guess I was irresistible.”

  “Oh, hah! That’s a good one,” Dan laughed. “Well, I guess that’s the game, isn’t it? We ugly men have to do our best to keep our pretty women thinking we’re irresistible.”

  “Yah,” Sven reverted to his Danish accent, “and imagine how hard that is for a Swede and a Dane, with our inbred competing Viking interests and all.”

  “What a match!” Dan laughed again. “But you two seem to have united Scandinavia here in the tropics. I don’t suppose you tell too many crazy Swede jokes?”

  “I’ve forgotten all about Swede jokes. Survival and self-preservation,” Sven said. “And she’s pretty good about not picking on the Danes too much. I call her my Swedeheart, and she calls me her Great Dane.”

  “That’s a good one,” Dan said as he looked nervously at his watch. “Nicole’s supposed to meet me here pretty soon. Jacob and Kirsten are down by the pier saying their goodbyes. But dang! Now you’ve got me thinking that maybe we better lay over here for a while longer and let the storm season close out before we head north.”

  Sven shrugged his shoulders. “What do you want to do about this list?”

  Dan picked up the paper, folded it and stuffed it in his pocket. “Guess we�
�ve got enough toothpaste and floss to see us through. And we know where to come and buy more when we need it.”

  “Hmmm, seems like I’ve talked you out of leaving any of your money with me today.” Sven smiled. “But I’ll get it eventually.”

  “I have no doubt that you will, my friend.” Dan reached out his hand and Sven clasped it in their familiar strong handshake, gripping each other’s thumbs in arm wrestler fashion and jacking their hands back and forth as if they were on opposite ends of a two-man crosscut saw. “Guess it’s time for an executive decision,” Dan said. “The admiral’s not here, so it’s left to the captain. But I’m sure she’ll agree one hundred percent. Nicole is not one who enjoys heavy weather sailing.”

  “Well, you’re only talking about another two months until the end of the hurricane season. When you’re cruising, you’re not supposed to be on the clock anyway. Right?”

  “Are you sure you’re not trying to get us to stick around so we will buy more stuff from you?”

  Sven grinned. “Clever plan, don’t you think? In the meantime, you can cruise up and down the island chain and see the rest of our 360 some odd bits of paradise.”

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. Hey, why don’t you bring Grendel and Kirsten out to the boat this evening. We can throw some fresh fish on the grill, the kids can play three-handed cribbage in the main salon, and we adults can lay out the cockpit pads on the foredeck and watch the sun go down.

  “Can’t think of anything we’d rather do,” Sven said. “How about if we bring a fruit salad?”

  “Perfect. I have a hunch the kids are going to be delighted. Cadee has been moping around for the last two days. Her little friend Maria Elena has been the closest thing Cadee’s ever had to a bosom buddy. It’s been hard on her to think of moving on.”

  “If you’ll watch the store for me for a few minutes, I’ll run over and let Grendel know about tonight. By the way, do you have your fish yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “After I close up, let’s grab our Hawaiian slings and I’ll show you a little place where the fish are fat and willing. If we’re lucky, maybe we can snag a couple of nice lobsters.”

  Chapter Eight

  October 3rd – The Land Without Laws

  Early October was cold in the village, but at an elevation of more than 8,000 feet, that was expected. Already snow had fallen on the higher peaks. Summer was over, and a long winter lay ahead. Sunrise came late and the sun disappeared over the western mountains by mid-afternoon. The growing season was short in these mountains, and some years it was non-existent, as early frosts killed garden vegetables even in mid-summer. In a good year, the people who chose to live here could grow only a portion of their own food in the few lower pastoral valleys. The rest came from outside. But food was the least of their concerns.

  Those who lived in this forsaken no-man’s land did so primarily because of the autonomous status of this mountainous buffer zone that lay between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Officially, the region comprised seven tribal zones known collectively as the Federally Administered Tribal Areas, but in the local language it was simply called ‘ilaqa ghair’, the Land Without Laws.

  By an agreement that had been struck after a long history of bloodshed, the Pashtun people of the tribal areas formally became part of Pakistan. While they were granted a seat in parliament, tribal laws forbade the existence of political parties, so only the tribal elders were allowed to vote. In every case, they passionately rejected any government interference that threatened their autonomy. Even though the region received financial support from Pakistan, the people refused to submit to Pakistani laws.

  It was an arrangement that suited the society of gangsters, weapons dealers and drug lords perfectly. Opium was their cash crop, produced and processed into heroin, then distributed through a network that fed the drugs into the international market. Money from the sale of narcotics was converted into whatever staples the people needed. Besides drugs, the second most important industry was weapons. Tribal law and social custom required that every man have a gun, and the area flourished as a center of arms production, both for local use and to supply terror organizations such as al-Qaeda. There were no taxes collected on money earned or goods sold. Internal fighting was a way of life, as rival clans warred against each other for power and control of the weapons and narcotics industries, and disputes were most often settled with guns and axes. The bloodstained landscape was a monument of pride and honor among the men, and the children were raised with battle and bloodshed in their hearts.

  Sorgei Groschenko was not happy living in such a barbarous society. Coming from a strictly controlled Soviet nation, this unstructured culture struck him as being completely unhinged and disconnected as it operated seemingly without rules or direction. He longed for structure and order, and in this place nobody knew from one day to the next who was in charge or what the rules were. It disturbed him greatly as he labored in his makeshift lab.

  Not only that, but he was cold again. There was no heat or insulation in the tiny mud brick house where he worked, and he was beginning to remember the worst days of Siberia all over again. Bitter cold penetrated the walls during the day, and at night it was worse as he shivered himself to sleep on the thinly padded pallet, covered only by a single wool blanket.

  Why couldn’t these terrorists set up shop on the warm shores of the Black Sea, he wondered. Why did they always choose the most inhospitable patch of ground on the planet to hide out? But at least he was well paid, and for that he was grateful. There was nothing about this project that he wanted his name attached to – no fame or glory this time – so the money had to be sufficient to fill the hole in his inadequately gratified ego. The sooner this project was completed and he got out of this frozen purgatory, the better.

  “How is it coming?” Husam al Din asked as he stepped into the small room that Sorgei used as a lab.

  “Slow,” Sorgei replied, without taking his eyes away from the microscope. The counter was scattered with an assortment of Petri dishes, beakers, a small butane burner and an incubator for growing his crop of deadly bacteria. “The secret is to get the biotoxin to pace its growth after it is released, so no one even suspects it is there until it has a chance to spread from person to person. If people start getting sick too quickly, the government will issue a quarantine to contain it, then the impact will not be so great.”

  “Yes,” Husam al Din agreed. “But when do you think you will have it?”

  Sorgei Groschenko looked up from the microscope, massaged his tired eyes with his fingers and heaved a sigh of frustration. “I wish I could tell you that I have it already.”

  “Yes, but when? There are many plans to be set into motion, but I can do nothing until you are ready with the toxin.”

  Sorgei looked up from the microscope. “Well, I’m doing all I can do. I’m working around the clock, as if there were anything else to do in this paradise resort.”

  “You are supposed to be the best.” Husam al Din was agitated. “You are being well paid.”

  “Look, these experiments take time. Each strain must be fully developed, then tested to see how they respond.”

  “Yes,” the Arab agreed, “for the plan to work, the toxin must travel unnoticed from host to host by direct contact. It must have a long incubation period so it will not show itself too quickly. There must be enough time for the germ to spread across a wide area before even the first host becomes ill.”

  “The way I am designing this bacteria, anyone who comes in contact with it either by touch or by inhaling it, will become a host. Once inside a host, the bacteria will become active and begin to work, but there will be no symptoms for many hours. Anyone else who comes into contact with the host will become infected. And the disease will be passed along from person to person by carriers traveling on airplanes, trains or buses across the country. By the time the illness begins to manifest, a few days will have elapsed, and by that time thousands will be infected without knowing it
. The germ will spread like a deadly wind, impossible to stop and moving so fast that no one will be able to determine where it came from.”

  Husam al Din nodded. “That is the beauty of this weapon. Before anyone realizes the disease has arrived, it will be too late to do anything about it.”

  Sorgei Groschenko smiled and looked into the twin microscope eyepieces again. “This is the culmination of the work I was doing before the Soviet Union fell. I am anxious to see it in operation.”

  “I, too, am anxious,” Husam al Din reminded the scientist by tapping on his wristwatch.

  Soregi raised his head. “I can’t rush any faster than I am going.” He hesitated, then continued, “But I am making progress. I can’t promise anything, but I believe I will have what you need within a few days.”

  “A few days,” Husam al Din repeated. “Then I will begin preparations for five days from tomorrow. I am generous.” He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him and headed over to Asman Massud’s shanty.

  Asman Massud bent over his workbench, safety glasses protecting his eyes from tiny fragments of aluminum being sprayed from the working end of a high-speed rotary tool that buzzed in his hand. An overhead light hung low over the aluminum tube he was concentrating on. He flipped the switch and the tool went silent. Laying it aside, he picked up a thin aluminum disc that was shaped with beveled edges and tested to see if it fit in the end of the tube. He fidgeted with it, pulling it out and pushing it in several times, testing the resistance and fit.

  A cold wind hit Massud in the back as the door swung open and Husam al Din stepped into the shop. The workplace was nothing more than a back room in a small house across the street from the mud brick structure with the lab where Sorgei was at work. And that one was only a little way from the one where Josh Adams was housed. Husam al Din was careful to keep the key players separated into their own spaces; no need to let Sorgei and sergeant Adams discuss anything without his supervision.