by Don Mann
“What the hell is this?” he shouted, tasing the first armed man he saw. The probe flew twelve feet, pierced the terrorist’s nylon face mask, and entered the skin under his left eye, penetrating a quarter inch and releasing 50,000 volts of energy at 7 watts. The jolt shot through his system like lightning, causing the terrorist to scream and fall to his right, his head smashing against one of the instrument panels and his fully automatic AKM spinning in the air and crashing onto the deck. As he bled from his nose, his colleagues attacked the captain with their fists and rifles, smashing his teeth and destroying his right knee.
Then two of them dragged him to the ship’s PA station, sat him in the leather chair, and showed him the typed-out statement, which he seemed too stunned to read. One of the men pushed it into his bloody face.
“You read! Read now! Tell all passengers to stay in cabins.”
“I can’t fucking see it without my glasses!”
“You read, or I shoot you in the head.”
While this was taking place, Petras hurried to the cockpit and pushed a large red button that sent an electric signal to slow the liner. Then he turned a dial that lowered the speed from eight and a half to six knots. Because the ship was moving relatively slowly through the gentle Aegean Sea, only two of its five generators were engaged, each producing 20,000 pounds of horsepower.
Next he flipped a series of switches that shut off the ship’s fire, man overboard, abandon ship, and security alarms.
Petras knew that the ship’s planned destination for 0730 that morning was Mykonos, Greece. On one of the full-color computer screens in front of him, he saw that they were currently ten nautical miles off the coast of the island of Samos, famed since the time of the Peloponnesian War between Sparta and Athens for its muscat grapes.
Before he disabled the ship’s cell-phone repeater, he called a man on a launch waiting near the coast.
“Sinbad, this is Stavros.”
“Yes.”
“We won the tournament. The trophy is all ours.”
This was only partially true, because when the master mariner in the engine room tried to communicate with the bridge to ask why they were changing speeds and why he couldn’t activate any of the primary and secondary communication systems, he alerted the engineers on duty. Following security procedures, the nine men locked themselves in a secure room from which they immediately issued VHF voice, and DSC and Inmarsat distress signals. The DSC (digital selective calling) signal was programmed with the ship’s MMSI (Maritime Mobile Service Identity) and GPS coordinates.
Within seconds both DSC and Inmarsat distress signals coded 39 (maritime emergency) were received by the Turkish Coast Guard Command (Sahil Güvenlik Komutanlığı) in Kuşadası, which alerted its two patrol boats on duty in the Aegean. Crews on the coast guard patrol boats scrambled. Courses were reprogrammed and throttles pulled back.
The closest Turkish patrol boat was within five and three-quarter miles of the liner when a forty-foot launch pulled alongside the Disney Magic. Terrorists inside the ship swung open the starboard cargo door and used pulleys to load the launch’s cargo of sarin canisters and additional weapons onboard. They worked quickly and expertly, as though they had rehearsed this procedure many times.
Petras, on the deck of the Magic, whistled to indicate that the cargo was safely aboard. Then he helped lower a set of aluminum stairs so that Mrs. Girard could climb down into the launch. Jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers had replaced her gown and heels.
As she prepared to climb over the railing and leave the ship, she turned to Petras and said, “As soon as we reach land we’ll issue the proclamation.”
“Good work.”
“You, too. For Syria,” she shouted above the launch’s engine.
“For Syria. Allahu akbar!”
Crocker and company were speeding up the six-lane O-21, halfway to Ankara, when the light on the sat-phone lit up. Mancini was at the wheel, with Akil asleep beside him. Janice snored gently from the back row. Davis, on the middle bench next to Crocker, answered.
He recognized Anders speaking urgently on the other end. “Davis? Where are you?”
“Sir, we just turned onto the Tarsus–Ankara freeway.”
“Put Crocker on the line. I need to talk to him immediately. It’s important.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nudged the team leader’s shoulder, but the half-conscious Crocker didn’t respond. Stan Getz’s version of “Corcovado” lilted through his earbuds, luring him toward a dreamland of tropical foliage and turquoise seas. Ahead he glimpsed a barefoot young woman in a red sarong.
“Boss.”
Crocker partially opened his left eye and waved Davis away. “I’m trying to get some rest.”
“It’s Anders. He says it’s important.”
She was brown-skinned and stunning. He didn’t want to let go of the dream. “Tell him we’ll be there after sunup. We’ll drive straight to the embassy.”
“He needs to talk to you now,” said Davis.
“Why?” he asked, coming out of his fog and wondering what the deputy director of operations wanted. He took the receiver from Davis. “Sir?”
“Crocker, where are you?”
“We’re driving. Maybe…another three hundred miles from Ankara. Should be there by around 0700.”
All he saw out the window was a flat dark landscape—no structures, no signs.
Anders said, “Text me your GPS coordinates immediately.”
“Why do you need our exact location? What’s up?”
“The next field or rest stop you come to, pull over and text me your coordinates. A TAF helicopter is on its way. I’ll be on it. When you see it, flash your emergency lights and prepare to board.”
“Yes, sir. What’s going on?”
“You’ll soon find out.”
The line went dead. As his mind revved up to process the conversation, Crocker handed the receiver back to Davis.
“What’s the story?”
“I think they located the sarin,” Crocker said.
Scott Russert was on his knees, tying his son’s sneakers and hoping to beat the early line for breakfast at the Lumiere’s dining area on Deck 3 when he heard three loud, sharp blasts over the ship’s alarm system. His entire body tensed and his blood pressure shot up.
“What’s that?” his wife asked as she emerged from the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel.
He was about to reach for the brown binder on the desk that outlined all the ship’s signals and emergency codes when Captain Hutley’s voice came over the PA system. He sounded tense and unsteady. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re currently experiencing a security situation that requires all passengers and nonessential crew to remain in their cabins until further notice. Anyone out on the decks, in the hallways, dining rooms, or other public areas, will be subject to grave danger.”
He repeated the message, then signed off.
In the pregnant silence that followed, Scott’s wife stared at him from across the cabin, her cheeks turning deep pink and her hands trembling. “Does that mean what I think it means, Scotty?”
“No, darling. Don’t go there.”
“Is something wrong, Daddy?” son Randy asked, picking up on his parents’ sudden anxiety.
“Does that mean we can’t go to breakfast now?” asked Russell.
Scott, who had trained himself to focus on practical solutions to immediate problems, started to calculate what they had in the room to feed the boys and keep them occupied until the “security situation” was resolved: a box of animal crackers, several fresh oranges, water, coffee, tea, a flat-screen TV and DVR loaded with dozens of Disney movies and TV specials.
He didn’t notice his wife and two sons surrounding him until he felt Karen’s fingers digging into his arm.
“Oh, Scott!” Her whole body was shaking.
“Daddy.”
“Yes.”
They held on to him as though he were their strength and only possible salvat
ion from whatever danger lurked outside.
“Daddy, can we still get pancakes?”
“Does that mean the ship’s going to crash?”
“The ship’s okay, boys,” Scott said. “We’re fine.”
Someone cried out something from a room down the hall. As he listened for sounds of violence, he felt the ship slowly turning to starboard, and assumed they were returning to Turkey. Scott considered it a good sign. They’d re-dock at Kuşadası, officials would address the problem, and they’d soon be under way again.
He thought of their home back in Putney as the alarm blasted again and Captain Hutley repeated his message for the third time. After the message finished, Scott listened carefully for any sound from the cabin next door. It remained quiet.
In some deep chamber of his mind he started to put two and two together. He looked at Karen, who was wiping tears from her eyes before mouthing “Pirates?”
He shook his head, reached out, wrapped his arms around his wife and sons, and squeezed all of them together. “No, love. Don’t think like that. We’re headed back to Turkey. We’re together. We’re a family. The intrepid Russerts. We’ll be fine.”
“Will we, Dad?” Randy pleaded.
“Yes. I promise.”
The SEALs parked the Suburban in the empty parking lot of what appeared to be an abandoned factory just off the O-21 and waited for the French-made, twin-engine AS532 Cougar helicopter to circle and land. Red lights washed over the surrounding buildings and freeway, and then the landing light came on and turned the asphalt bright white.
Crocker felt adrenaline coursing through his veins as he climbed onboard and strapped himself into a seat between a security man in civilian clothes clutching an M5 and a grim-faced Grissom. The helo lifted off and banked to the right. Anders reached over the seat behind him and handed Crocker a single piece of paper.
As he read the hijackers’ statement in the dim overhead light, his blood started to heat up. Terrorists had seized control of the Disney Magic. They were threatening to release sarin and kill all the passengers unless the U.S. president publicly pledged to withdraw all American troops from the Middle East immediately and deposit two billion dollars in various Cypriote and Dubai bank accounts. The terms had to be accepted within twenty-four hours. The document had been issued at 0700 hours on the eighteenth of June and was signed “The Fox—ISIS.”
Unacceptable. Not fucking happening.
Crocker turned to Anders and shouted over the engine noise, “How many passengers?”
“Some 2,687. Another 857 crew members.”
Jesus.
“How many hijackers?”
“Unclear.”
“Who’s the Fox?”
“Don’t know. But analysts at HQ are narrowing the list of candidates.”
“Where’s the ship now?”
“It’s been turned around and is heading east.”
“It’s clear the terrorists are in charge?”
“Yes.”
“And the sarin is aboard?”
“We believe so, yes.”
Chapter Nineteen
Chaos is a friend of mine.
—Bob Dylan
Chaos reigned at MiT headquarters near the port of Kuşadası—Anders, Grissom, Janice, Crocker, Colonel Oz, the commander of the local Turkish coast guard station Captain Shamaz and two of his officers all crowded into one stifling command center, staring at radar screens and satellite images on computers while talking into cell phones in English and Turkish. Anxiety radiated from all of them.
It was a terrible atmosphere for clear analytical thinking.
Crocker’s head pounded from the confusion and the heat. Events were unfolding so rapidly. Rumors, shards of information, and possible opportunities ricocheted through the room like stray rounds.
A group of Turks perused passenger lists faxed from Disney headquarters in Florida, looking for the names of known Islamic terrorists.
Unlikely they’re using their real names. He understood the need in crises like this to want to do something, but he also knew the danger of wasting precious time.
As Crocker was downing a bottle of water, he was summoned into a corner where Anders, Janice, and Grissom were all huddled as if for a two-minute drill.
“Here’s the latest from HQ,” Anders announced, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip, his voice breaking up. “The Disney Magic is moving at eighteen knots, three-quarters speed, east southeast. According to the latest computer models, it’s headed back into the Mediterranean in the direction of Cyprus, and beyond that possibly the Syrian coast.”
“Why is that important?” Grissom grumbled, his jaw tensed, his blue eyes narrowed into slits.
“For various reasons,” Janice interjected, her white blouse wet with perspiration, strands of hair plastered to her forehead and neck.
“Let me finish,” said Anders, raising his voice. He cleared his throat and spoke with confidence this time. “The president’s in the White House situation room with his national security advisors—DCI, NSC, Defense, Homeland Security.”
Grissom cut him off again. “We know the players.”
“They’ve decided it’s impossible to concede in any way to the terrorists’ demands. Any sort of statement from the president or attempt at negotiation is off the table.”
Grissom: “I’m not surprised.”
Janice: “Me either.”
“So the question is: Are the terrorists willing and able to carry out their threat and kill all crew and passengers?” Anders continued.
“I believe so,” Grissom groaned.
“The conclusion arrived at by the president and his top advisors is yes.”
Janice nodded. “Totally agree. We have to operate on that assumption.”
“I agree. But are we sure they have the sarin?”
Janice added, “They said so in their statement.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“I know, but…”
“No one else has located it,” Grissom continued as if he were the one in charge. “We have to assume it’s somewhere and it was taken for a purpose. I think we can conclude the purpose is goddamn clear now. Agree?”
Anders nodded. “We have to assume the terrorists have the sarin onboard, and if not, some other means of destroying the ship.”
Crocker stood quietly and listened as his mind raced ahead, riffling through the hundreds of ship takedown exercises he’d participated in and the half-dozen actual ones he’d pulled off.
Anders looked at his watch, which read 7:14 p.m. “That gives us approximately eleven and a half hours to organize, plan, and launch some kind of rescue—which appears to be the only option we have left.”
Janice nodded. “Agreed.”
All the real ops Crocker had done involved freighters or oil tankers. None were on passenger liners with so many lives at stake.
“If we can pull off a rescue attempt in this small window of time, the question then is, Do they really have the ability to deploy the sarin?” asked Anders.
Grissom thrust out his chin and answered, “All they have to do is hook it up to the ship’s ventilation system. Take ’em five minutes if they know what they’re doing.”
“How long will it take to deploy?”
“Seconds, probably,” Janice observed.
“Damn right,” Grissom said. “We have to assume seconds. If they have it attached to some kind of mobile digital device, all they have to do is push a button.”
“So how do we get our operatives onboard without losing the element of surprise?” asked Anders.
“Good question.”
“Real good question.”
All eyes turned to Crocker.
“What do you think?” Anders asked. “You think you and your men can fast-rope onto the deck from helicopters?”
Crocker shook his head. “Not without being seen and heard. Not happening.”
Janice agreed. “You’re the expert.”
&
nbsp; Anders scratched the side of his face. “There’s another problem. According to BBC Weather, if the Disney Magic continues on its route southeast, it’s going to run into a major storm that’s sweeping out of the Caucasus.”
“When?” Crocker asked, glancing again at his watch.
Anders answered, “Sometime before midnight.”
“How long is it likely to last?”
“It’s a big storm. Projected to continue into the morning.”
Grissom slapped his hand against the wall and said, “That’s terrible news.”
Anders nodded. “Yeah. Makes this real problematic.”
“Kind of rules out using helicopters, don’t you think?” asked Janice, looking at Crocker.
Grissom: “Or any other kind of rescue.”
“How about we block the ship somehow? Trap it, so it can’t go anywhere,” Janice suggested.
“Then the jihadists kill everyone aboard,” countered Grissom.
Anders turned to Crocker and almost pleaded, “What do you think? There must be something…”
Crocker remained calm. His mind quickly sorted through possible scenarios, none of which so far seemed appropriate. “I think that my men and I are going to have to board that ship before the deadline, but fast-roping onto the deck is not an option.”
Grissom: “Then what the hell is?”
“First I’m going to need a detailed plan of the ship. Then I’m going to need to talk to an engineer from Disney who knows how the vessel’s ventilation system operates and where the terrorists are most likely to have hooked up the sarin.”
Anders turned to Janice and said, “Call HQ and tell them to get us an expert from Disney. Get him or her up on Skype. Now!”
She hurried off as Crocker continued thinking out loud. “This person…this engineer needs to tell us the best way to quickly shut down the system in a way that can’t be overridden.”
“Check.” Anders wrote furiously on a yellow legal pad.
“We’re going to need to move lightning fast. The terrorists release the sarin or detonate any sort of bomb and the mission goes completely south.”