by Rich Johnson
The machinist felt the breeze and heard a rustle behind him and turned to see al Din. “Ah, good,” he said, “I have been wanting to ask you some questions about the vial that will hold the toxin. It will have a bearing on how I attach the explosive device.”
Husam al Din clapped his hand on Massud’s shoulder. “It is good to have such a thoughtful man working on this project – someone I can trust.”
The machinist smiled at the comment. In this part of the world, smiles and compliments were rare. Conditions of life were too bitter for the frivolity of smiles. Relationships, even between husband and wife, survived more out of interdependence than love. Those who might be friends under different circumstances had to be satisfied with relationships of mutual misery, working toward a common objective such as a planned martyrdom to create a bond of mutual support that kept everyone going.
“It is good to be appreciated,” Asman Massud said.
“As for this,” Husam al Din said, picking up the tube, “I will be carrying two copies of this flashlight in a small duffel bag. They will be hidden among what will appear to be my personal items and clothing. Tell me how you are planning to rig it.”
Asman Massud took the aluminum body of the flashlight from al Din. “This disc” – he laid the thin aluminum piece in his palm – “will become a false bottom, turning what was once a three-battery flashlight into one that uses only two batteries, and it will be wired so that it will not turn on the light. The vial and the blasting cap will be concealed in the end of the flashlight behind the false bottom. When the cap explodes, it will shatter the vial and pressurize the tube, forcing the toxin out through small holes that I will drill in the end cap. I only need to know the size of the vial.”
Husam al Din unbuttoned his chest pocket and took something out and held it up in the light. “I will use this to serve as the vial. It was made especially for this purpose, with glass that is thin and brittle.”
Asman Massud took the glass tube in his fingers, held it up to the light and examined it closely. Then he picked up a small caliper and checked the dimensions. “This will be perfect,” he said, handing the vial back to Husam al Din. “I will use two small nylon cable ties to secure the blasting cap to the vial.”
“I do not want anyone to hear the explosion,” Husam al Din said. “I want the release to be as quiet as possible. You will need to insulate the flashlight body some way.”
“I can do that,” Asman Massud said proudly. “I can make it so the exploding cap will make no sound. All you will need to do is turn on the flashlight, and the batteries will fire the blasting cap, shattering the vial and releasing the toxin. In your hand, you will feel the detonation, but there will be almost no noise. Perhaps just a dull thud, but you can cover the sound of it with a cough.”
“It is a good plan.” Husam al Din smiled. “I want you to prepare two of these for me, so I will have a back-up. The time cannot come soon enough.”
Chapter Nine
Josh Adams sat at an aged wooden table with legs that wobbled as he leaned over a large-scale nautical chart of the Port of Miami that was stretched out in front of him. Using a plastic sheet as an overlay, he marked three squares and labeled them – one was the US Customs office; the second was the Coast Guard station; and the third was the Port Security office.
Husam al Din leaned over the table and watched. “Where will the containers be removed from the ship?”
Josh used the marker pen to indicate the area of giant cranes. “This is the terminal where the containers come off the ship. One at a time, they are lifted from the ship’s top deck, then the rest are pulled from the cargo holds. Depending upon the size of the ship, the top deck containers might be stacked as much as six high and ten wide.”
“Then what happens?”
“The cranes lower the containers onto waiting flatbed trucks that haul them away.”
“How long does the process take?”
“To unload an entire ship can take hours. How long it takes to unload your particular container depends upon where it is on the ship. The ones on deck come off first.”
“An estimate?”
“From the time the crane hooks up until the time the container is on the truck, about six minutes. Twice that long, if the box is in the cargo hold. But you have to allow for breaks in the process. These guys are union workers.”
“Tell me about the inspection process, from the time the ship approaches the harbor until the container is on the ground.”
“Even before the ship enters the harbor, it might be boarded by the Coast Guard or Customs to check the manifest and look around. They are free to open and inspect any container they deem suspect. After the ship docks, that same process can happen again, although it is not likely, if the ship has already been inspected at sea. Once the containers start coming off, they hate to slow things down for inspections, although you can’t eliminate the possibility of an inspection once the box is on the truck. There are new radiation screening processes they’re putting the boxes through.”
“From what you saw while working there, what do you think are the chances of an inspection?”
“Radiation screening is a sure thing. A physical inspection with the container getting opened, the percentage is low. A lot depends upon the ship. Container ships are rated according to the TEU capacity. A TEU is a 20-foot equivalent unit. Cargo containers come in 20-foot and 40-foot sizes.”
“Keep going.”
“Well, depending upon which ship we’re talking about, it might be rated at anywhere from 1,500–9,000 TEU capacity. You have to consider that more than 30,000 shipping containers are processed into the US every day, each of them carrying thousands of containers, and there’s not enough manpower to take a look at all of them. Only a very small percentage can be inspected. And only if a container is suspicious will it be deeply inspected.”
“So how do I eliminate the chance of being among even that small percentage? There must be a way. There must be something the authorities look for when they are deciding what to inspect.”
“Yeah,” Josh exhaled, “that’s true. There are key things they watch for, like drugs. They use drug-sniffing dogs for that. And radiation; they use detectors. And irregularities in the manifest. If the cargo is listed as something to be expected, bananas from Costa Rica, for example, they don’t worry too much, especially if the container seal has not been tampered with. If the manifest lists a solid gold Rolls Royce from the Emir of Oman, they might take a look.”
“Then we must create a manifest that will appear to be very normal, so no one will suspect anything. I have a plan for what will be on the manifest, and can get that handled by our people at the point of departure, without any problem.”
“So, where are you shipping from?” Josh asked.
Husam al Din stared hard at him. “I am not sure I want to tell you that.”
“Don’t trust me, huh?” Josh said.
“I haven’t known you long enough. I’m not sure I want to know you long enough. You are an American, an infidel. You are the enemy of my people and of my soul. I will pay you for your information, but that is all.”
“Does Sorgei know?”
“He knows only what I want him to know. That is enough.”
“But I’ll bet he knows more than I do.”
“I have worked with Sorgei before. He has been with our organization for several years,” Husam al Din said. “Still, I tell him only what is necessary. He is a resource. If I need to have him make special arrangements, then I give him the details.”
“How can you trust any Russian after what the Soviets did to Afghanistan?” Josh asked. “We were even helping your guys fight those Soviets – supplying weapons, giving clandestine training to your people.”
Husam al Din looked straight at Josh. “The war with the Soviets is over. The war with America is not. Sorgei hates America. Have you not heard the ancient Pashtun proverb that says the enemy of my enemy is my friend?”
“So you consider me to be your enemy?” Josh asked.
“Are you Muslim?”
“No.”
“Then you are an infidel. You are my enemy.”
“Isn’t Sorgei also an infidel?”
Husam al Din nodded. “He is indeed.”
“Then how can you justify working with either of us?”
“An infidel might be used to help accomplish my greater purposes,” Husam al Din said, “but he is still an infidel.”
“If that is what you believe and you are sworn to kill infidels, how do I get out of this alive?”
“You will live only because I have decided to let you live. But if I die, you have no promise among my brothers. They are not bound by my oath.”
“Then I better keep you alive as long as I can,” Josh said.
“That is amusing.” Husam al Din smiled. What he didn’t say was that in less than a month, he intended to be dead – a martyr for his cause, as he personally delivered the deadly toxin in the container.
Chapter Ten
October 11th – Eastern Caribbean
October 11th dawned warm and calm in the tiny hidden anchorage of Waisaladup in the San Blas Islands. Palm trees on the encircling beach waved a friendly greeting to Nicole Plover as she poked her head through the forward hatch above the main stateroom bed.
“Ahhh,” she yawned to Dan, “another gorgeous day in paradise.”
Without waiting for an answer from her still-snoozing husband, she squirmed up through the hatch and onto the foredeck, then went to the bow seat on the starboard side and plopped down facing the sunrise. The world and all its problems seemed so far away as she soaked up the warmth of pink sunlight and listened to the birds and felt the gentle rocking motion of the boat on the water.
It’s great to be a morning person, she thought, reveling in the quiet time she enjoyed while Dan and the kids were still asleep. This must be what it was like for Eve when she woke up before Adam in the Garden of Eden. It was a vision that brought a smile to her lips. Looking around and seeing no one, she eased over the side and into the warm velvet water. The kids were late sleepers, so she pretended to have Eden all to herself.
Nicole was just gliding past the port bow on her way around the boat for a counterclockwise lap when she heard a deep voice. “Why hello there Mrs Plover. Nice to see you this morning.”
“Eeek!” The sound burst out of her throat before she could stop it.
“Ha!” Dan laughed. “I got you. You thought I was still asleep, didn’t you? Thought you could sneak out for a little morning swim without me?”
She splashed him as he moved in to surround her with his arms. “How did you get in the water so quietly?”
“That’s my secret weapon,” he said “I can’t tell you, or I might never have another opportunity like this again.”
“How long do you think the kids will sleep?” she asked, cuddling in his hug.
“I drugged them. They’re out for the whole day,” he joked. “Why? What did you have in mind, Mrs Plover?” He hiked his eyebrows twice when he said her name.
“Hmm,” – she smiled her best come-hither smile – “well, since you’ve drugged the children, maybe we have time for …”
“Hi mom. Hi dad,” came the bright childish voice of Cadee. “What are you doing swimming so early in the morning?”
Nicole darted beneath the bridge deck between the bows and pulled Dan in after her. “Uh, oh, hi honey,” she replied. “What are you doing up so early?” She scowled at Dan. “I thought your father drugged you.”
“What?” Cadee said. “What did you say?”
Nicole poked Dan. “I said, is Jacob still asleep?”
“Yeah, he’s snoring his brains out,” Cadee answered.
“Well, here’s a plan,” Nicole said, “why don’t you go jump in the shower and I’ll come and get breakfast started.”
“Okay,” Cadee said, and disappeared inside.
“Drugged the kids,” Nicole chided. “That will teach me not to believe everything I hear from a good-looking man.”
“Want me to go get you a towel?”
“That would be very nice,” she smiled.
“It’ll cost.”
“What’s the price?” She raised her eyebrows as he had earlier.
“Hmmm.” He hesitated, looked away and then looked back as if he were thinking about how high a price to ask. “Okay, a kiss for now, and your undying love forever.”
“I can manage that,” She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her soft lips against his.
“Umm, that was nice.”
“Now, Mr Plover, my towel?”
“Right,” he said. They swam to the back of the boat and climbed the steps. Then he wrapped her in a nice warm towel and they stood in the cockpit and watched the rest of the sunrise together.
Chapter Eleven
October 11th – The Land Without Laws
A frosty Autumn wind whistled under the eaves as Josh Adams sat on his hard bunk in the mud brick house. His wristwatch told him it was October 11th, but it felt like the middle of January. He was a prisoner in this bitter and uninsulated house. A small sheepherder stove made of thin sheet metal glowed red as he stoked the fire and tried to warm the room. His morning and noon meals consisted of goat milk and hard bread – for supper, his captors brought him hot soup. The drinking water smelled stale, and Josh wondered which pasture creek it came from, where years of animal dung might have polluted it.
It had been two days since Husam al Din last talked with Josh. At the end of that visit, the Arab rolled up the chart of the Port of Miami together with the overlay drawing and all the papers Josh used to write descriptions of the target area. Then he left the house and Josh did not see him again.
Two days and nights came and went, and the only contact Josh had with anyone was when food and water were brought. It’s exactly like being in solitary confinement in a prison, Josh thought. Food shoved through the door, then the door slammed and locked. Josh rehearsed in his mind all that happened since his arrival in this forsaken place. Weeks passed, yet he had not been allowed outside. His windows were boarded up with rough planks, but by pressing his eyes close to the slits between the planks he could see a little of the narrow dirt road that ran in front of the tiny house. A couple of times, he caught a glimpse of Husam al Din walking between this house and the one across the way, and he wondered if that was where Sorgei Groschenko was housed.
Now, there was a mystery, Josh thought. Why did al-Qaeda need to reach into Russia for a weapons expert to help them with their jihad? These were people who seemed to be able to take a couple of firecrackers and a cell phone and come up with an improvised explosive device that they could set off at their pleasure. So why did they need somebody like Sorgei? It was a puzzle – one that Josh wanted to solve. Maybe with Husam al Din out of the way for a while he could figure out how to spend some time with Sorgei and pick the Russian’s brain.
The other thing he wanted to find out was exactly what Husam al Din meant to do in the Port of Miami. Yes, Josh had cooperated by telling him about port security … but not all. He didn’t tell everything – not the most important things. He revealed just enough to make the Arab believe he was getting the whole story. Just enough to keep myself alive, without giving away the farm, he told himself.
The sound of voices speaking Arabic penetrated the window from outside the front of the house. Josh leaned close and listened. He hoped Husam al Din had neglected to tell the rest of the men in camp that the American soldier was fluent in Arabic. As the men talked, he studied their words. A sudden chill ran the length of his spine, as he heard the message.
“Here is the food. Feed the dog. Husam al Din has taken the weapon. His jihad begins. We will keep these two alive only until we receive word that the mission has succeeded, in case we need to get more information out of them. Then we will take their heads.”
Josh moved away from the window when he heard the hard metallic sound
of a key being inserted into a padlock. The door swung open and a plate was set on the floor, then the door slammed shut.
Josh pressed his face against the window and squinted into the bright overcast dawn through the crack between the boards. From a distance, he heard the call to prayer, and several men walked past, all heading in the same direction. A few moments later, the narrow lane was empty. The realization struck him: everybody’s gone for prayer. He called out for the guard, but there was no response. “Maybe even the guard has gone to the mosque. This might be my chance,” he whispered under his breath.
Two other rooms in the house had windows that were also boarded, and one of them faced onto an empty field where there was nothing but dead brush and weeds. In that back room Josh squinted between the boards and saw only empty wilderness that stretched away to distant mountain peaks. He gave a shove with his shoulder and the nails in one of the boards squawked. He shoved again, and the board popped free and fell to the ground outside. For a moment, he waited, peeking around then ducking back, to see if anyone outside heard the noise. No one came. With the butt of his hands, he hit the second board, and it came loose. Two more smacks and it was off, giving him room to escape.
Once outside, he loosely replaced the boards. On quiet feet, he moved to the corner and peered around. The rutted path that served as a road was still empty. As silently as he could, he sprinted across to the other small house. Boards covered all the windows. This had to be where Sorgei was being kept … or perhaps someone else being held hostage. These two houses were POW quarters, Josh guessed, and he also figured that he and Sorgei were the most recent prisoners. He stepped to the window and banged on the wood covering.
“Sorgei,” he called in a loud, half whispered voice, “are you there?”
“I am,” came the reply. “Is it you, Josh?”
“Yes. Can you let me in? We need to talk.”
“The door is locked from the outside. It is only opened when they bring food.”