Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2)

by Jacqui Murray

  With no other option, Obeid ended up doing exactly what the Kenyans required which was to shadow WEPS, the officer in charge of weapons. The gangly Brit instructed Obeid keep his mouth shut and learn. This Obeid did, knowing it would take every bit of his prodigious IQ to derail this plan, but he intended, Allah inshallah, to do just that.

  The loudspeaker blared, “The games have begun.”

  Triumph had reached the Dutch Annual International Submarine Command Course Competition off the coast of Del Helder Denmark where they would test the crew’s skills at evasion. When Oooga shrieked from the speakers, Obeid jumped and slammed his head into the bulkhead.

  WEPS laughed. “Bob’s your uncle, Parisher. We’re diving. You’re a submariner now,” mistaking Obeid’s trepidations for fear.

  Obeid’s stomach churned. It was time. Bismillah. As the sub nosed downward at a five-degree angle, he stabbed a 9mm gun snuck aboard by one of the Kenyans into WEPS’ ribs, hoping aggressive would be mistaken for power.

  “Do as I say. I-I do not wish to hurt you.” His voice came out pinched and unsure.

  WEPS pushed his glasses up his nose. “I say, mate. What are you doing?”

  Obeid ground the gun into WEPS’ side and removed the armory keys from the officer’s belt. “We are hijacking this submarine. Proceed to the crew’s mess. Do not stop. Do not talk to anyone and you will not be injured.”

  To Obeid’s immense relief, the man did as asked. When they reached their destination, forty of the boat’s 130 crew crowded into the small room, officers and enlisted, all under the alert eyes of a gun-toting Kenyan. Obeid shoved WEPS through the hatch. The officer stumbled, righted himself, brushed his jacket smooth, adjusted his glasses and turned to the nearest Kenyan.

  “Are you bloody fucking wankers trying to hijack our boat? This is—”

  The Kenyan drove his left hand into the V under WEPS’ ribs. The man gasped and pitched forward. Next, the Kenyan stomped hard on his exposed neck. The crunch of bones reverberated through the silence and the officer lay still. The sour stench of urine soon saturated the room.

  “Boys.” The cherub-faced McEwen, the one who welcomed Obeid aboard, shouted from across the room. “There are eight of them and dozens of us. What are we waiting for?”

  The rat-a-tat of an AK-47 on full auto shattered the room. McEwen went down first, a line of red stitched across his chest, followed by five officers who had started forward and seven sailors. The Kenyan ran through multiple magazines without pausing. No one even tried to stop him.

  The room finally fell into a stunned silence, broken by the moan of a dying sailor begging for help as blood bubbled from his wheezing chest. A sheen of red covered everything. The armed Kenyan stared into a boy’s pleading eyes and double-tapped him in the head. Obeid vomited. It was San Diego all over again. “You promised no more death!”

  All heads turned to him as one of the Kenyans dragged Obeid through the hatch and threw him against the bulkhead, dangling by his neck, feet hanging uselessly above the deck. The man’s sweat-coated face hovered an inch from Obeid, the sour rot of bad oral hygiene making Obeid gag.

  “Kindness is weakness,” the henchman spit out as he smashed Obeid’s windpipe until the scientist almost choked. “You are kaffiya from too much time in their belly. You have forgotten they are the enemy.”

  Obeid tried to agree, but ended up with a mangled squawk. Just as blackness began erasing Obeid’s world, the Kenyan leader slapped his mate.

  “He is the only one who can launch the weapons.” The henchman dropped Obeid like a bag of rice. Obeid gasped, rubbing his throat.

  “Alhamdulillah. Thank you,” he rasped to the man who saved his life

  The leader crouched down, smoothed Obeid’s collar and smiled. “Islam is borne on a river of jihad, my friend. Violence is a necessary means to the end, but I understand your concern. These thugs,” and he hitched a thumb over his shoulder, “are True Believers, but have no brains. I need yours.”

  “Yes. I am sorry. I have seen too many die for no reason.”

  “Do your part and no one else gets hurt. I promise. Killing too many of these blokes will make the Brits angry and we will not get what we need. But if you try something funny, more die and that will be on you. Understand?” He helped him to his feet. “I will show this group,” he nodded toward the crew mess, “evidence. It is fake, but remember what Allah teaches when dealing with the infidel, that the end justifies the means. Praise be to Allah.”

  Obeid took a seat in the room as the leader addressed the cowed group.

  “You no longer work for Her Majesty. I am your Captain. I control the Bridge, the Engine Room, Command Information Center, and the weapons. I have left those required to run the ship in position, but they will not rescue you.”

  He held a picture up of a pink-cheeked toddler, duct taped naked to a chair, tears streaming down his blotchy face. The body of his mother lay in a crumpled heap at his feet, her head at an impossible angle. Obeid fought to remain impassive, but panic bled out. No matter what the leader said, these images weren’t fake.

  “Only those who assist in the takeover of this submarine are necessary.” The predatory eyes turned to Obeid. “Get weapons from the armory. The rest of you, tie each other up. If you behave, there will be nothing more dangerous than chafed wrists.”

  Obeid fled, WEPS’ keys in his shaking hands, the Kenyan’s lies echoing in his ears. Bile burned his throat as he tried to calm himself. He must treat this like a physics problem, solvable once you found the key. Obeid needed the key.

  He raced down the pway and stumbled into the most violent of the Kenyan henchmen. He had pinned three submariners against the bulkhead with his AK-47. Obeid darted past, around a corner, and then froze at the next words.

  “Who will tell me how to use the nuclear weapons?” Seconds passed and then an AK-47 barked followed by a shriek and a thud. “Have I changed any minds?”

  A voice squeaked. “We can’t even if we want to, can we. The codes are in the blarmy safe and only First Sea Lord—in London—has the combo. Th-that keeps the sub from going rogue.”

  Obeid could see the henchman’s dull brain work through this complication. He pulled the trigger. The sailor howled.

  “You’re lying.”

  “It-t’s true, mate! They used to be with the Captain, didn’t they, but th-that changed!”

  A phone chimed and the henchman repeated what the sailor had said. “He says you’re lying,” and shot the man.

  The remaining sailor shrieked, skidded around the corner and caromed off the bulkheads, the Kenyan three steps behind. Calmly, he raised his weapon and pulled the trigger. The sailor arched back, hands clawing at air, then crashed forward, head bouncing once and then lay still.

  “Looks like it’s up to you.”

  Whatever good feeling Obeid had for being part of something important blew up with that boy’s life. His legs shook brutally, but he squelched the backwash of emotion and made a decision. Surely, the Brits could counter a hijacking. He would act the part of a terrorist, but keep a keen eye for some way to stop them.

  “Triumph, request your position.”

  This was the third call in thirty minutes. Triumph had been paired with HNMLS Dolphun, an old Walrus-class diesel. The game required each sub avoid detection for seven hours, which gave Triumph a long head start to its final destination. At this point, to find them, the Brits must scan a circumference of two hundred miles around Den Helder.

  The British radioman had tried covert messages on VLF and ELF—very low- and extremely-low frequencies. Now they resorted to an open channel.

  “Sir. Still nothing.” The Brit radioman was so nervous, he left the line open. Someone directed, “Start a grid search.”

  The Kenyan leaned into the Captain. “What’s that?”

  “They’ll methodically cover the surface based on our last known position and move out, looking for wreckage, buoys, distress signals—anything that indicates our prese
nce. Then they’ll drag the ocean floor for debris.”

  “They better not find us.” The Kenyan drew a hand across his throat, the message as subtle as the 9mm in his hand.

  The Captain punched the mic. “Noise lock down. We’re being hunted.”

  Five minutes later, the Brit radioman announced, “SOSUS picked up a blip. Too small for Triumph, isn’t it? A whale?”

  The Kenyan grabbed the Captain. “What’s this SOSUS?”

  The Captain shook free, fire in his eyes, and tugged his blouse back into place. “SOund SUrveillance System is a chain of underwater sonar listening posts to notify the home country if someone crosses their ocean borders. There,” and his finger traced a path across the Straits of Dover, from White Cliffs England to Calais France. “Change directions or they find us in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes. Let’s see if this sub can operate as advertised.”

  Something tumbled across the Captain’s face.

  Minute by minute, they crept toward the imaginary line. Obeid was transfixed by the blip. Finally, seconds remained as Triumph inched toward the line. Obeid held his breath, hoping, as the final moments ticked off.

  And then it passed.

  The Captain muttered, “That’s impossible,” not believing what he’d seen.

  That was impossible. When anything passed within range of the sonar listening posts, sound waves were bounced back to the receiver. A string of posts across an egress/ingress point wouldn’t miss Triumph. The estimate of their position must be off.

  Then eleven minutes passed. No alarms. No bells. No call from the radioman. Obeid kept his face impassive, gun pointed at the Navigator, and set his brain to work on how al-Zahrawi made a sub invisible to sonar.

  “Triumph, requesting your position,” and then, “We’ll find you. If you’re sunk or unable to communicate, you will not die.”

  The Captain sagged. “Where are we going, mate?”

  When the Kenyan said nothing, the Captain shook his head. “I can’t stop you, blarmy. Tell me what you’re doing with my sub.”

  The Kenyan slammed him into the consul. “It takes only two nuclear submarines to control the planet, you and one other. In twenty-one days, Allah regains what is righteously his.”

  USS Virginia, off the East Coast of the USA

  “Sir, unknown contact bearing zero-five-zero, range one thousand yards.”

  “On my way.”

  Yesterday’s Top Secret briefing popped into the Captain’s mind. Credible SIGINT and HUMINT indicated submarines were a terrorist target. Anything out of the ordinary should be addressed with extreme caution. The Captain had never known a US submarine to be hijacked on the open seas, thought it impossible, but he would take no chances on his first command. He was the youngest sub Captain in the Navy and wanted to be the best.

  “What d’you have?” The Captain peered at the Bridge monitors and saw nothing.

  Virginia had been deployed on a top secret mission, the purpose of which the Captain would find out in another week. His only hint came when maintenance added forward-looking cameras to his sleek Virginia-class attack sub. Something required enhanced visual even at the expense of speed. The CO had puzzled over this with his XO, a twenty-year veteran the Captain felt lucky to have, and come up empty.

  “Sonar is picking up a rhythmic noise, manmade.”

  “XO?”

  “That’s Morse code, sir. SOS.”

  Morse code? No one taught it anymore.

  “Captain. Flash message. One of our ASDS’s contacted Norfolk. Some sort of electromagnetic pulse knocked out their power. We’re to render any assistance possible.”

  An Advanced SEAL Delivery System meant American SEALS. Odd no one mentioned it in the Captain’s pre-departure briefing. Anything in his AOR, he should have been apprised of. They must have launched after Virginia left Norfolk.

  No matter. Now, he must decide. Because subs spent so much time incommunicado, the Navy selected a Captain in part for his ability to act autonomously and correctly. Calling for advice would be admitting he was unprepared for leadership.

  “Let’s make sure it’s ours before riding in on our titanium horse.” Although, it must be. Who else would have a Navy minisub? “OOD. Close to six hundred feet for visual.”

  The cigar shape of an American submersible appeared, resting in the silt and teetering on the edge of the continental shelf. A stiff current would push it over and tumble it well past its crush depth. No one would find it in time to save the men aboard.

  But still, he would be cautious. “Circle the submersible.”

  They took a quick loop. It was banged up. Maybe someone attacked it; the crew fought them off, lost power, life support, and comm in the battle. The CO squeezed his fists. His gut said these were fellow warriors in trouble, but this could go wrong so many ways.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “What’s the world come to when we refuse assistance to fellow Americans in need? Go get those boys.”

  Chapter Three

  Day Four, Thursday, August 10th, early evening

  Adirondack Mountains, New York

  “I’m going to slip into something you’ll like, Baby.” Candy peeked over her shoulder and winked. Bobby James, ex-high school football star, now a senior agent with the FBI known equally for his ability to intimidate felons as his salaciously single lifestyle, found himself staring like a hound dog drooling over a bone. He may have met his match in Candy Caminski.

  “You know what I like.” He tried for manly, but his voice came out strangled

  She giggled and left the cabin’s cozy living room for where James expected to spend most of this weekend—the luxurious master bedroom with its massive four-post bed, real wood fireplace, intimate Jacuzzi, and double-pane French windows with a spectacular view of Mt. Marcy, the highest point in the Adirondack Mountains. James had reserved two spots on a hiking day trip in case they felt frisky.

  James put wood on the already roaring fire for something to do. The rental agency had stocked the grate with enough logs to get them through a week-long snow storm. He popped the cork on a $100 bottle of Duckhorn Special Edition Cabernet Sauvignon and then decided he might as well get comfortable also.

  He slipped out of his Crockett & Jones Oxford Brogues purchased on his last visit to MI-6 London headquarters, the Hermes suit Candy had bought for him on a Paris junket (she had entertained herself shopping while James met with DGSE, France’s CIA), the Anderson & Sheppard white shirt with tiny stripes coordinated with the Robert Talbott silk tie his personal shopper insisted were de rigueur this season, and threw on a fluffy white robe that matched Candy’s. He tugged the belt around his waist, dimmed the lights and settled into the double-wide chair placed conveniently in the glow of the fireplace.

  “Pour me a glass of that Duck, will you, Baby? I love wine with sex.”

  James gulped, hands shaking with anticipation. Why the number two swimsuit model in America wasted time on him, he had no clue. He doubted it was his six-foot 250-pounds of well-managed muscle with the tiny roll that refused to be weight-lifted away, or the receding hairline Candy said made him look ‘distinguished’, or even the chiseled jaw still firm despite his forty something years. No. James suspected it had more to do with the frisson of danger that surrounded a seasoned federal agent who carried a gun like others carry credit cards, awash in international terrorists and privy to the secret lives of presidents.

  He poured. “The refreshments are ready, honey bun, and so am I.”

  She giggled.

  There was a knock on the cabin door. When James ignored it, as well as the next, his cell buzzed. No one had this number except Tess, his assistant, and she had strict instructions to bother him only at the request of the Director. He tiptoed over and peered through the peephole as he answered the phone. A tall gawky man stood hunch-shouldered in the pale moonlight, face a mottled pink, thin hair damp against his skull, a yellow stain on his Burberry collar. He held a Blackberry to his ear.


  “What?”

  The man jerked upright as though surprised to hear a voice. “Special Agent James? I’m Special Agent Haster, MI-6. I need your help."

  Each s whistled like fingernails on a blackboard. James’ call-waiting beeped. Speak of the turncoat.

  “Excuse me a moment,” and he toggled to the incoming call. “Tess. Why—"

  A strident female voice cut him off, "Try unpacking your encrypted phone.”

  The man who was presumably SA Haster pounded on the door. “SA James. Please allow me entry.”

  James punched call waiting. “SA Haster. Give me a moment,” and he muted the phone, looked around for his suitcase, and found it still on the couch. He flipped it open one-handed, dug through swimming trunks, a satin lounge jacket, and a toy Candy had asked him to bring, until he found the encrypted Blackberry satellite phone. He plugged in the safety protocols and called Tess.

  “Who’s SA Haster?”

  “The Director sent him.” Her words were like a whiplash. Tess cared zip James was the boss. She saw them as equals, different jobs but the same patriotic goal.

  The pounding got louder. “Please open the door, SA James. It is far from private out here for the conversation you and I must have.”

  “Tess, hold on.” He switched phones and unmuted SA Haster: “I’m not at the cabin. I’m in town, having dinner—”

  “And yet your car is in the driveway, lights are on and smoke escapes the chimney.”

  James scowled. Hiding from a spook was difficult. “It’s 9pm. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  "Would I have flown across the Atlantic without my morning tea, spent two hours tracking down your whereabouts, and driven five hours through rush-hour traffic if tomorrow was soon enough?"

  “I’ll give you five minutes. Hold on.” That’s all the time James had to find out what Haster had to say. Swimsuit models like Candy had options. Forty-something spies didn't.