Deadly Cargo: A chilling naval terrorism thriller

by Rich Johnson

  National Hurricane Center – Miami

  “Hey, Harlan, I think you should take a look at this. We’ve got us another one.”

  Steve Crossfield moved aside as Harlan Morehouse sat down in front of the monitor and watched the satellite playback of a weather system building off the west coast of North Africa. “Yeah, there she is all right. Just a baby right now, but give her time and let her feed on the 84 degrees water and she’ll grow up to be a regular mama. Still too small and weak to merit any mention, but she’ll bear some watching. Give her a week to ten days and then we might have something.”

  “Well, just in case, I’ll get the paperwork together for the next name so we can christen her when it’s time.”

  Harlan chuckled, “Yeah, we might as well be prepared. This has been one heck of a season, and I don’t think it’s going to end right on schedule. We could see a couple more of these before it’s all said and done. Hopefully, no bombs.”

  “That’s all we need,” Steve agreed. “The whole coast from New Orleans to Pensacola still looks like a war zone. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this one will spin off into the north Atlantic and leave us alone.”

  “Sure,” Harlan laughed. “I believe in the Easter Bunny.”

  “Well, a guy can dream, can’t he?”

  Harlan slapped Steve on the shoulder as he was moving back to his own desk. “After you’ve been in this chair for a couple of decades, like I have, you’ll come to accept that most of our dreams turn to nightmares. At least during hurricane season.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  October 23rd – NIA Headquarters

  An excited vibration in her pocket alerted Denise Lund that a call was coming in. “Denise, get Ernie and Josh and watch your monitor. I’ll send the video footage via secure satellite when you’re ready. From the sketch, I think this is your man. He went through here on the 11th, but as you’ll see, he is no longer wearing a beard, and he’s in western clothing.”

  The man on the other end of the line was Rashid Singh, a NIA operative who ghosted through southeast Asia, changing his appearance and personal documents to suit his needs. A master of disguise and able to speak nine languages with perfect dialect, Singh had played the role of everything from a Dutch businessman to an elderly Indian grandmother to a British punk rocker. So it was easy for him to spot a man who was trying to change his appearance, as Husam al Din did.

  “Hold a minute, Rashid. I’ll get the guys in front of the computer.”

  A moment later, she was back on the line. “Okay, we’re ready. I’ve got you on speaker. You can start the video feed. We’ll download to a hard drive so we can do all the playbacks from here.”

  “This is footage from the international airport in Karachi at 0849 local time on October 11th,” Rashid said. “Watch closely, because he passes by quickly, but still the picture quality is pretty good. I’m hoping Josh can make a positive ID.”

  The three of them crowded around the 36-inch monitor, scanning the crowd of travelers. “There,” Josh pointed at the monitor as a man walked within camera range. “That’s him.”

  “Are you certain?” Denise asked. “Tell me why you are so sure.”

  “It’s his eyes. Back it up; I’ll show you.”

  Denise reversed the hard drive in slow motion until the man came into view again. Josh walked to the monitor and pointed. “Stop there. Now, zoom in.”

  Denise typed the keyboard commands and the picture went to freeze-frame and then closed in for a tight shot on the man’s face.

  “Can you get closer on his eyes?” Josh asked.

  “Yeah,” Denise said, still fingering the keyboard, and the picture zoomed in to twice the former size. “How’s that?”

  “Good,” Josh said. “Can we clean it up and sharpen the image?”

  “Yes, but I thought you said you had a positive ID on this guy even though he was moving fast.”

  “Oh, I know it’s him all right. I just want to show you two why I’m so sure.”

  “Okay,” Denise said. “I’ll have it in a second.” She worked the keyboard and the image started to snap into clearer focus. “There you go.”

  “All right. Look there, above his left eyebrow. See that little diagonal scar? He was proud of that scar. He told me it was his first battle wound. Got it in the madrassa when he was a kid. A head butt from another kid that he had killed with his dagger. This is absolutely our man.”

  “Rashid, did you hear that?” Denise half shouted toward her phone as it sat on her desk some distance away.

  “I did. Okay, now that I know for sure, I’ll track this guy’s movements from Karachi. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.”

  Denise got out of her chair. “I’m taking a walk down to Curt’s office. You guys want to come?”

  ****

  At Karachi International Airport,Rashid Singh stepped up to the Indonesia Airlines counter, reached into his briefcase and pulled out a photo ID that showed him as an inspector for the airline. “I would like to see your passenger list from October 11th,” he said to the smiling dark-skinned girl.

  “Of course, sir.” She smiled. “Please come this way.” She led him down the counter to an opening where he could step through, then showed him the way to the office. “Please make yourself comfortable. I will summon the man who can help you.”

  “Thank you.” Rashid smiled back at her and took a seat in a comfortable chair next to a potted tropical plant. What a gracious young lady, he thought. Only a moment passed before a door opened and a man in a western style suit approached him.

  “What can I do for you?” the man asked, a cold tone in his voice.

  Rashid stood up and reached out his hand. The man took it as gentlemen do all across the world. “I am here to inspect your passenger records. Particularly, I am interested in the flights on October 11th.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “Well,” Rashid said, “I am afraid it is confidential company business. All I can tell you is that we are trying to locate a fellow whom we suspect took something onto one of the flights that he was not supposed to have. The company is trying to keep it all as quiet as possible, as you might imagine. Word of this gets out, and the stockholders will start to worry.”

  The man in the suit did not return Rashid’s smile. “Let me see your identification.”

  “Of course.” Rashid smiled again, reaching into the briefcase. As he bent to retrieve the fake ID card, he heard a faint snapping thud, felt an impact in his upper spine and his hands went numb and started to quiver. The sound was familiar to him, but his brain didn’t place it at first. It seemed as if time stood still. A strange, warm tingly feeling swept over his body. Then it came to him – the sound was the muffled noise of a silenced handgun.

  Rashid Singh was dead before he hit the carpet.

  October 25th – NIA Headquarters

  Curt Delamo picked up the phone and pushed a single speed-dial number. One by one, each team member checked in alphabetically by last name. Even though this was a secure line, it was the check-in system he preferred, and he blamed it on his amateur radio network days. “Adams, Abernathy, Banes, Lund, McFarland, Vellum, Wayanotte.” The roll call was complete, so Curt got right to the point. “Singh is dead. Meeting in one hour. My office.”

  An hour later, Curt broke the details. “Got a call this morning from Pakistan. Last night, a body was pulled out of a shallow grave beside a hangar at Karachi International. It was discovered by a maintenance guy. The police chief in Karachi reported it upstream, ’cause nobody seemed to know who the body was. Wasn’t long until word was on the street about the strange body, and one of our field ops guys tracked it back to Singh. Bullet through the spine, just below C7. We’ve seen this before. It was a Pashtun hit.”

  “He was made.” Jack Abernathy shook his head. “Somehow he was made. But I don’t know how it happened. Rashid was too clever and too careful for that. He could have showed up for dinner and his own mother wouldn�
��t recognize him.”

  “Well, if they got to Singh, they can get to any of us,” Curt warned. “Somebody doesn’t want Husam al Din to be followed.”

  “We know al Din flew out of Karachi on the 11th,” Susan said, twirling her mechanical pencil in her fingers. “We suspect he was flying to a major port city with container facilities and routes to Miami. I say we jump ahead and see what we can find.”

  Curt drew a breath and thought for a moment. “All right. Get me a list of the most likely ports, and—”

  “Already got it, boss,” Bruce said, handing a sheet of paper across the desk. “And for my money, I’m betting on Manila. Don’t ask me why. Just a gut feeling, and I do have a sizeable gut to work with. Not much hair,” he chuckled, “but a substantial gut.”

  Curt scanned the list, noting the inclusion of distances and route vectors from each port to the canal at Panama. “Thorough work. Good job. But your substantial gut notwithstanding,” – Curt shot a smile at Bruce – “I think we’d better split up and cover some territory. There are three ports of particular interest, and we better hit the ground running. We’ve got people in each of these places, and we’ll put them on it immediately. Susan, I want you and Josh in Manila by tonight.”

  Susan sighed. “Major jet lag.”

  “Jack and Bruce, you’re going to Jakarta. Denise and Chris, you’re going to Singapore. Ernie and I will ghost behind each of you. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Husam al Din is probably already in his container, halfway to Miami. We’ve got to find out where he departed so we can discover what ship he’s on and exactly when it’s due to arrive. Now, let’s get out of here. I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”

  October 26th – Inside the container on the Desdemonda

  In the stench-filled gloom, Husam al Din pressed the button on his wristwatch to illuminate the dial, and noted the time and date. It had been thirteen days, according to the date block on the face of his watch; nearly two full weeks locked up in a dark coffin that never ceased to roll, pitch and yaw without mercy. At first the seasickness was so bad that he couldn’t even think about food without vomiting, so he decided to forego eating altogether. Lack of nourishment took its toll, leaving him weak. While his body lost strength, his mind began to slide into doubt that all of this was worth it. Even without food, his gut still revolted at the constant motion of the ship, and the dry heaves were so violent that his eyeballs felt as if they were about to burst. After that, he decided that it was better to eat at least enough to allow his stomach to vomit comfortably.

  With a weary hand, he reached up from his position on the bed, turned on the small overhead light and looked around at the mess. He prided himself on being a clean and orderly man, and the scene before him was disheartening. “What has happened to me?” he thought aloud, and the sound of his own voice came as a shock. It had been nearly two weeks since he heard any sound except that of his own miserable retching, and the constant thrum-thrum of the ship’s engines vibrating through the steel walls of the container. And then it came to him – how long had it been since he heard the sound of Salaat, his prayers? How long had Allah gone without hearing the prayers of Husam al Din?

  The thought stunned him, and he immediately rose from the bed to begin Niyyat, standing with respect and attention to put the world behind him. “Allaahu Akbar …” he began, but the roll of the ship, and his own weakness toppled him and he fell in a heap beside the bed. He struggled back to his feet, intent on demonstrating to Allah that he had not forgotten. An excuse ran through his mind: it is because I have been so sick, he tried to justify himself. Then another realization crashed into his mind, and he fell to the bed and wept. “I don’t even know which way it is to Mecca,” he wailed. “How can I possibly pray when I do not know which way is toward Mecca?”

  In his misery, he reached into the duffel bag and felt for one of the two flashlights that Asman Massud built for this special mission of jihad. He rolled it over in his hands, feeling the knurled aluminum barrel that made it look exactly like one of the expensive American flashlights he had seen in the picture above Massud’s workbench. For a moment, he considered switching the light on and ending his wretched life. But he stopped, laid the flashlight on the mattress beside him and mumbled, “I am Husam al Din, the Sword of the Faith.”

  San Blas Islands

  “You won’t believe what I just heard on the SSB net.”

  Dan took the last two strokes of the oars and skidded the dinghy onto the beach where Sven was lying in the shade of a palm.

  “This palm is too skinny. I have to keep moving every couple of minutes,” Sven complained.

  “Well, while you’re whining about your inconveniently narrow tree, I’m frustrated as all get out.”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  Dan climbed from the skiff, pulled it half a boat-length onto dry sand and dragged the bow line up the beach with him. “The problem, my faithful Nordic friend, is that the National Hurricane Center in Miami is starting to make noise about another tropical depression that’s meandering across the Atlantic, displaying intentions of heading our way.”

  Sven nodded at the line in Dan’s hand. “You gonna tie that to something?”

  “How about if I tie it around your neck?” Dan’s voice rose, then he threw the line on the ground.

  “Hey, I admit that I’m Danish and that we are known to be a powerful, not to mention good-looking, race of people. But wonderful as I am, I’m not in charge of the weather. Please don’t spread that around.”

  “You said hurricane season was over.”

  “Almost over. I think I said almost over. Besides, this late in the season, weird things happen with the weather. Just get your brain back into cruiser mode. That means no stress; slow down to an idle, wear a big smile, life is good.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have anywhere to go.”

  Sven grinned up at his friend. “Well, unless you want to go out there and play with a hurricane, I’d say neither do you.”

  “Yeah, well we did want to get to Guatemala, sail up the Rio Dulce, wander the jungle, take a tour to see the ruins up north. Stuff like that.”

  “Been there, done that,” Sven yawned. “Rio Dulce has nothing that’s better than this place, so just pull up a sliver of shade and relax. Sorry our trees are so skinny, but they’ll have to do.”

  Dan flopped on the sand and stared at the palm fronds dancing on the breeze against a backdrop of perfect blue. “I guess you’re right. It’s just that sailing the Rio Dulce has been a long held dream of mine.”

  “Let me play psychiatrist for a minute, okay?” Sven said.

  “Go for it. I already know I’m nuts.”

  “Being nuts is only part of your problem.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Dan grumbled. “How much do I owe you for that sage diagnosis, Doctor Lutefisk?”

  “Hey, don’t let it worry you. We’re all a little bit nuts.”

  “Especially those of us who pretend we’re psychiatrists.”

  “Especially so,” Sven said.

  “So, what’s the rest of my problem?”

  “I don’t know that we have time to cover that much ground.” Sven shook his head in mock seriousness.

  Dan sat up and started to get to his feet. “Right! Well, I guess this session is over. My check is in the mail.”

  “Okay,” Sven chuckled, “ sit back down. I’ll give it to you straight.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “The whole problem can be summed up in one word – expectations.”

  “What’s wrong with expectations?”

  “What’s wrong with them is that they don’t always get fulfilled. An unfulfilled expectation is what causes stress. Stress is what causes heart attacks, ulcers and the kind of mental lapses that drive men into the path of a hurricane in an attempt to fulfill an expectation.”

  Dan laid back in the shade of the palm, laced his fingers behind his head and stared thoug
htfully at the fronds and the blue. After a long moment, he rolled his head toward Sven. “Thanks Doc.”

  “I’ll send you a bill.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  October 27th – Colon, Panama

  Captain Sleagle stepped from the sweltering humidity into the cool, smoky darkness of the Papagayo. A ceiling fan with fake palm frond blades thrummed with a low vibration as it circulated a cool breeze through the air-conditioned saloon. Old wooden chairs were tilted up against small tables scattered around the room, and most of the bar stools were unoccupied. It was early afternoon, so the place was almost empty. Here and there, the perennial drunk who paid no attention to time of day or night, sat in dazed silence and nursed a bottle. The Papagayo was relatively peaceful at the moment, but that would only last a few more hours until it devolved into the brawling chaos that erupted every night.

  For a moment, Sleagle stood by the door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then he spotted his favorite bar stool, empty, at the far end. He navigated through the maze of tables and chairs, pulled back the stool and took a seat. One glance at his wristwatch made him shake his head, disappointed that his time ashore was going to be so short.

  “Ignacio,” he called to the bartender, trying to make himself heard above the racket coming from the cluster of patrons apparently having a high time at the pool table. He had known Ignacio for more than fifteen years, and saw the skinny black-skinned man every time he came through Colon and made his traditional trek to the Papagayo.