One man, moving alone and fast in the night, always had the advantage over a superior force. Osama had proved that for five years. But the thought of coming so far and failing ground at his nerves.
Ramati keyed the walkie-talkie. “Mr. Sozansky, send out the line handlers, please.”
“Roger,” one of the mujahideen responded in a reasonably good English accent.
All Panamax ships were guided through the locks by electric locomotives called mules, which ran along tracks on both sides of the canal. Leader lines were tossed down to the ship, which would be used by the line handlers to pull heavy cables down on deck that would be attached to cleats starboard and port, bows and stern. The ships would move in and out of the locks under their own power, but would be guided and held in place by the mules.
Graham picked up the ship’s phone and called Hijazi. “Mr. Kiosawa, stand by to raise anchor, please.”
“The pilot is here?” Hijazi asked.
Graham glanced at Sanchez, who had pulled a handheld VHF radio out of his satchel. “Yes. We’ll be getting under way shortly.”
“Insh’allah.”
“Yes, indeed,” Graham said, careful to keep the anger out of his voice. Hijazi was assuming that the pilot could not hear what he was saying. But he’d taken an unnecessary risk for the sake of his religious sensibilities.
Ramati stepped across to the starboard wing so that he could see astern as well as forward. He spoke into his walkie-talkie then came back onto the bridge and crossed to the port wing, where he spoke again into his walkie-talkie, then came back.
“Our line handlers are in position,” he told Graham.
“Very well,” Sanchez said, without waiting for Graham to confirm the report. He keyed his VHF radio. “Gatun Control, this is the Apurto Devlán with pilot ready for upbound transit.”
“Roger, Apurto Devlán, you are cleared for transit.”
Sanchez turned to Graham. “Mr. Slavin, you may raise anchor, and get under way. Course one-seven-four, speed two knots.”
Graham called Hijazi. “Raise the anchor, and prepare to give me two knots.”
“Roger,” Hijazi said, subdued now that they were actually getting under way. In a few hours everyone aboard ship would be incinerated, and it had finally gotten to him.
Graham replaced the phone. Hijazi and the others would finally get the answer they’d spent their lives seeking. They would probably be disappointed.
SEVENTEEN
PANAMA CITY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
The lights of Panama City had sparkled from a distance as the Gulfstream carrying Kirk McGarvey flew across the isthmus straight down the cut between the mountain peaks through which the canal had been blasted. When the VIP jet’s hatch was opened and the stairs lowered, a blast of hot, humid air, even worse than at Maracaibo, filled the cabin, bringing with it a combination of smells: burned kerojet, wet jungle, and big city garbage dumps.
Two sturdy-looking men, dressed in Navy SEAL night fighter uniforms, leaned nonchalantly against a camouflaged Humvee on the ramp as McGarvey came to the hatch.
Sergeant Contreras gave him a warm smile. “I hope your flight with us was pleasant, sir, and that good luck rides with you.”
“Thank you,” he told her. “I think I’ll need it.”
The captain opened the door to the flight deck. “I’ve not been authorized to wait for you,” he said.
“It’s not necessary,” McGarvey said. “Thanks for the lift.”
Sergeant Contreras handed him his overnight bag, and he stepped down from the airplane and crossed the tarmac to the waiting SEALs, who straightened up at his approach. They were young, probably in their twenties, McGarvey figured, and they looked impatient. He stuck out his hand.
“Lieutenant Herring, I’m Kirk McGarvey.”
Herring shook hands. He was a little shorter than McGarvey, and his grip was anything but hard, as if he didn’t have to prove anything. But he had the look: He’d been there, done that, and he wore his self-confidence like a politician wears his charisma. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “This is my assistant fire team leader, Ensign Tom Kulbacki.”
McGarvey shook hands with the taller, leaner man, but turned back to Herring. “I assume that you have a chopper standing by.”
“It’s under cover,” Herring said.
The Venezuelan air force jet had turned and was trundling back down the ramp toward the active runway. McGarvey glanced back at it. “You don’t trust them very much, do you?”
“The tanker is one of theirs, for all I know the crew is Venezuelan too.”
“They got me here with no questions asked,” McGarvey said.
“Yeah, just what we need tonight, a civilian,” Kulbacki muttered, but loudly enough for McGarvey to hear.
“I don’t trust anybody, Mr. McGarvey,” Herring said.
“That include CIA?”
Herring nodded tightly. “Anyone who has to use the big dogs to throw his weight around.” He gave McGarvey a very hard look. “Like I told you on the phone, we don’t need civilian interference. Just get the hell out of our way, and let us do the job we’ve been trained for.”
“Lieutenant, I assume that the Apurto Devlán is already under way.”
“She pulled up anchor ninety minutes ago,” Herring shot back. He glanced at Kulbacki. “We could have resolved the situation by now.”
“In that case we’re running out of time,” McGarvey said. “As much as I’d like to continue our pleasant little chat, I suggest that we get started. I’ll brief you on the way down.”
Herring was clearly frustrated, but he nodded. “Get in,” he said. He turned, climbed behind the wheel of the Humvee, and immediately took off, not bothering to see if McGarvey or Kulbacki had gotten aboard.
He drove with a vengeance a hundred yards along a line of hangars, making a sharp right behind what might have been some sort of an administration headquarters, closed at this hour of the night. An H-60 Seahawk, no lights other than a dim red glow from the cockpit, was parked beneath camouflage netting, in the shadows behind the building.
Several men in black were lounging beside the chopper. Even before Herring pulled up, they scrambled inside the machine, and the rotors began to turn.
McGarvey was dressed in jeans, a dark, short-sleeved polo shirt, and boat shoes. He grabbed his bag and followed Herring and Kulbacki across to the chopper, where they climbed aboard. Herring went forward to talk to the pilot while the assistant fire team leader helped McGarvey strap in. The other six operators, all dressed in black, and equipped with night vision goggles and a variety of weapons ranging from Beretta auto-loading pistols with silencers in chest holsters, Ithaca Model 37 short-barreled semiautomatic shotguns, and Heckler & Koch M8 carbines, were strapped in and ready to go.
“We’ve got a set of camos for you, and a Colt Commando if you need them!” Kulbacki shouted over the rising noise.
“No thanks,” McGarvey said. He took his 9mm Walther PPK out of his bag, checked the load, and stuffed the weapon in his belt. Next he took out a spare magazine of ammunition and put it in his trousers pocket. No one cracked a smile, but they all watched him. “What’s our flying time to the locks?”
“Fifteen minutes!” Kulbacki shouted.
Herring came back and strapped in beside McGarvey as the helicopter accelerated from beneath the netting. As soon as her tail rotor was clear, she lumbered into the air, swinging toward the north, but keeping low.
“The Apurto Devlán has already made it to the first lock!” he shouted to McGarvey. “So now you have my undivided attention. What do you want to do?”
“Are we carrying a gun crew?” McGarvey asked.
“Yes. The chopper’s equipped with a pair of 7.62 machine guns.”
“It’s my guess that Graham killed the original crew and replaced them somewhere between here and Maracaibo.”
“Your guess,” Herring said pointedly.
“That’s right,” McGarvey shot back.
“But I’m not guessing when I tell you that Graham will not become a suicide bomber unless he’s given no other options. He’ll get off the ship, and once he’s clear he’ll detonate the explosives. The ship, the locks, and everyone close will be destroyed.”
“They’re all nuts.”
“From our point of view, you’re probably right,” McGarvey said. “But get one thing straight: They might be nuts, but they’re not stupid. Graham was a trained Royal Navy officer, he’s operated as a pirate in the South China Sea, and since 9/11 has been working for bin Laden. Interpol and every intelligence service in the world have been looking for him for more than five years. From what I’ve learned this is the nearest anyone’s gotten.”
“Well, he made a big mistake this time,” Herring said. “We’re going to take him down.” He glanced at his operators. “My people will not let him get away. No chance in hell. Guaranteed.”
McGarvey was beginning to lose his patience. “Graham won’t be impressed by a stealth operation.”
“I think he will be,” Herring said. He grinned. “We’ll disarm the explosives before he gets a chance to pull the trigger.”
“As long as we can keep him aboard in the meantime,” McGarvey said. “If he gets clear he’ll push the button.”
Kulbacki was following the conversation. He leaned closer to McGarvey. “Won’t matter, sir. We can block his radio signal. Most of them use a simple garage door opener code. We’ve got a high-power transmitter that blankets their signals.”
“We learned that the hard way in Iraq,” Herring said.
“I hope you’re right,” McGarvey said. “But if at all possible I want to take the man alive.”
“We’re going to be pretty busy,” Herring said. “I can’t guarantee that we’ll have the time to take prisoners.”
“I only care about Graham. Once we show up he’s going to jump ship. I want to take him before then.”
“I’m listening,” Herring said.
“We go in fast and noisy,” McGarvey said. “But there’ll be a civilian pilot on the bridge. So everyone has to be careful. I don’t want any civilian casualties. And the same goes for workmen ashore. No collateral damage.”
“We’ll do our best—”
“You’ll do better than that, Lieutenant,” McGarvey said. Before Herring could object, McGarvey cut him off. “I don’t want to come on strong. We’re on the same side; fighting the bad guys for the same reasons. But I’m here and I’m not going away. And that’s a fact.”
Herring held himself in check with a visible effort. “Go ahead, sir, I’m listening.”
“Assuming you can either find and disarm every explosive package they’ve set in place, and/or block the remote detonator signal, there are still two worst-case scenarios concerning Graham. One, he gets away. If that happens he’ll be even more strongly motivated to hit us, maybe with another 9/11. Maybe something worse.”
“What’s the second?” Kulbacki asked.
“That somebody kills him.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“If we can take him alive, I think he might be the key to finding bin Laden,” McGarvey said. “And that’s one man I’d very much like to get close to again.”
Herring exchanged a glance with Kulbacki. “Okay, Mr. McGarvey, you have my attention now. How do you propose we handle this?”
“Graham’s not going to be impressed by anything we do, but his crew will react to a shock-and-awe strike, which is exactly what I want your people to give him.”
“And what happens if you’re wrong?” Herring asked. “What happens if Graham isn’t aboard, and we start shooting at innocent Venezuelans?”
“I’m not wrong,” McGarvey said. “The real captain’s body was stuffed in an aluminum trunk and left in a hotel storage room.”
“I see.”
“I want the chopper gun crew to stand by to make sure Graham doesn’t jump ship.”
EIGHTEEN
APURTO DEVLÁN, GATUN LOCKS
The Apurto Devlán eased slowly into the middle lock leading to Lake Gatun fifteen minutes before one in the morning, slightly ahead of schedule. A second Panamax vessel, this one a cruise ship, was in the lock ahead of them and more than twenty-five feet higher and rising.
She was a Carnival ship, out of Miami, which gave Graham a particular pleasure. When he pressed the detonator code, not only would the Apurto Devlán go up in a ball of flame, completely destroying the Gatun locks, but the cruise ship would also be wiped out, killing Americans. Probably even more than died in the World Trade Center attacks.
“Engines Back All Slow,” Sanchez told al-Tashkiri.
“Back All Slow.” Al-Tashkiri acknowledged the order, just as he had been taught to do.
Ramati was starting to become agitated. Graham glanced over and slowly shook his head. His first officer acknowledged the warning with a nod. The ship would never leave this lock, and everyone aboard except for the Panamanian pilot knew it.
The ship’s engines responded to the order, and her forward momentum bled off as her bows approached the forward gate, and the stern mules took up the slack, keeping her centered.
“Stop All Engines,” Sanchez ordered softly.
“All Engines Stop,” al-Tahskiri responded. He was sweating, his face dripping, his khaki shirt soaked at the armpits and across the back.
The pilot looked at him, then went to the port wing to check their clearance aft.
“Get a hold of yourself,” Graham whispered urgently to al-Tashkiri.
When the pilot came back, he keyed his walkie-talkie. “Gatun Control, Apurto Devlán ready for number-two closure.” He held the walkie-talkie to his ear momentarily to hear the response then keyed the Talk button. “Roger,” he said. He looked pointedly at al-Tashkiri, and then Ramati. It was obvious he sensed that something was wrong.
From the moment they’d raised anchor and slowly made their way north up the seven-mile channel past docks, shipyards, and fueling stations, the pilot had been edgy. He’d not engaged in any conversation, other than to issue orders, and from time to time he gave them odd, searching looks.
“Are we in position, Mr. Sanchez?” Graham asked to distract the man. They only needed a few more minutes in case Gatun Control had something else to speak to Sanchez about.
“Yes,” the pilot said. “Mr. Sozansky, are you feeling well?”
It took a moment for al-Tashkiri to realize that the pilot was addressing him. He turned and nodded. “Yes, sir. Just fine.”
“Is this your first transit?”
Graham reached for his pistol.
“No, sir,” al-Tashkiri said. “I’ve been here before.”
Graham motioned for Ramati to move out of the line of fire.
The pilot pointed to the sweat stains on al-Tashkiri’s shirt. “You seem a little nervous to me.”
Graham’s hand tightened on the pistol in his pocket.
Al-Tashkiri choked out a strangled laugh. “Yes, sir. I’m always nervous. I’ve been this way since I was a little boy in … Poland.”
Sanchez shot a look at Graham as if to say it was the captain’s fault if a crewman was so nervous he was drenched in sweat at the helm. But then the massive steel gates began to close astern, and the pilot went again to the port wing to check clearances.
Graham snatched the ship’s phone from its cradle and called the engine room. “We’re done with the engines. It will happen very soon.”
“Insh’allah,” Hijazi said softly, and with great respect.
“Yes, God willing,” Graham told him. He hung up just as Sanchez came back.
The pilot laid his walkie-talkie on the shelf beneath the center windshield, took a thermos of coffee from his pack beside the helmsman, and poured a cup. He did not offer some to Graham or the others.
As soon as the gates behind them were closed, sealing off this lock, massive valves would be opened and water from Gatun Lake would rush into the chamber, rising the ship to the center level, more
than fifty feet above the Caribbean, in about fifteen minutes.
At that point the lead gates would open, the cruise ship, which would be twenty-five feet higher, would be disconnected from the mules and would sail out into Gatun Lake, leaving the chamber to be filled for the Apurto Devlán. Before that happened Graham wanted to be off the ship and well enough away to trigger the explosives.
The timing was tight, but manageable. He would make it so. He smiled.
“Mr. Slavin, I’ve been thinking,” the pilot said.
Not for long, Graham thought. “Yes, Mr. Sanchez.”
“I don’t remember your cousin. But I’m sure that I remember the name: Grigoriy Slavin.”
“I’m flattered,” Graham said. “There must be thousands of vessels through here each year.”
“More than fourteen thousand,” Sanchez said. He was looking at Graham over the rim of his coffee mug. “A figure that as a Panamax master you should know.”
Graham glanced behind him through the port windows. They were slowly rising. The valves had been opened. He smiled. “I’ve never been one for someone else’s exact numbers,” he said.
The pilot shook his head. “You’re not Grigoriy Slavin,” he said. “You’re an imposter.”
“Yes, I am,” Graham said. He took out his pistol, and before Sanchez could move or even speak, shot the man in the middle of the forehead, blood splashing across the port radar set.
The pilot’s head was flung backwards. He dropped his cup, which shattered on the steel deck, and his body bounced against the forward bulkhead as he fell on his side, dead.
Al-Tashkiri closed his eyes and began to rapidly mutter something. Graham figured he was praying, preparing his soul for Paradise.
Ramati, on the other hand, was highly animated, flinging his arms outstretched as if he simply could not contain himself. Graham had to briefly wonder if it had been like this for the crazy bastards in the last minutes of the flights that hit the World Trade Center.
Graham switched aim and fired at Ramati, the shot catching his number two in the middle of the chest.
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