Allah's Scorpion

by David Hagberg

  McGarvey turned to Rencke. “Keep me in the loop.”

  “Will do, kimo sabe,” Rencke said.

  “I’m going home,” he told the others. “We’re probably missing something that’s important. Let’s just hope we can figure out what it is before it’s too late.” He turned to McCann. “By the way, Ms. Ibenez was working for me. I asked her to backstop me in Karachi, and she did a hell of a job, so if I were you I’d take it easy on her.” He smiled. “I’d take it as a personal favor, Howard.”

  SIXTY

  SS SHEHAB, IN THE ATLANTIC

  Graham stepped into the officer’s wardroom a few minutes after midnight Greenwich mean time. The three Iranians and two Libyans seated around the cramped table looked up with various degrees of expectation and hate in their eyes. He’d called the meeting, but had not told them why.

  He locked the door, and spread a large-scale chart on the table, holding the rolled edges down with teacups, and a couple of ashtrays.

  Ziyax was the first to recognize what it was, and he looked up in surprise. “That’s the American coast. The Chesapeake Bay.”

  “Exactly,” Graham said. “We’ll be there nine days from now.”

  “Insanity,” Ziyax said softly, and he looked at the others around the table. Only al-Abbas, his former XO, nodded, but al-Hari, Chamran, and Sayyaf, all Graham’s people, shot him a dark look.

  “Why do you say that?” Graham asked mildly. He’d made his final plan the instant his chief engineer had shown him the two nuclear weapons. Bin Laden had kept that part from him in case he was captured by the Western authorities before he could board the sub and make it out into the open Atlantic. But he needed these men to carry out the attack. If there was going to be trouble, which he expected there would be, he wanted it out in the open and dealt with well ahead of time.

  “In the first place the water there is too shallow for a submarine, and the entire area is crawling with American military. Especially the navy. Their Second Fleet is based at Norfolk.”

  “Actually you’re wrong about the depth of water, the York River is deep enough to hide us, but you are definitely correct about the military presence, which is exactly why we’ll get in without trouble.” Graham smiled. “They won’t be expecting us.”

  “For good reason,” Ziyax argued. “If we get bottled up in the bay we’d never get out. A few rusty Russian torpedoes are no match for a good ASW warship. Even for a captain with your training and experience.”

  “You are right again,” Graham said. “At least as it concerns us getting out of the bay once we’re inside. But the fact of the matter is I have absolutely no intention of trying to escape.”

  Ziyax opened his mouth, but said nothing.

  Al-Abbas leaned forward, his eyes narrow. “You arrogant ass, you’re planning on committing suicide with us.”

  It was exactly how Graham had foreseen this meeting. Not only were they all fools, but they were idiots as well. In fact, in his estimation most of the Arabs he’d dealt, with were scarcely one generation away from being ignorant desert-wandering nomads. Bedouins. Even some of the Saudi royal family he’d met were no different, despite their expensive university educations in the West, and their wealth. Bin Laden himself had once admitted that living the tribal life in the mountains of Afghanistan had been a time of joy and cleansing for his soul. Which was a crock of horseshit.

  “I have no intention of committing suicide,” Graham said. “Although when we have finished our mission if you would like to die for the glorious cause I won’t stand in your way, Lieutenant Commander. In fact, I could probably be persuaded to help.”

  Chamran chuckled.

  “I don’t trust you.”

  Graham laughed out loud. “I don’t trust anyone. But for the moment I require your assistance and your loyalty.” He leaned forward for emphasis. “If I can’t count you, I will kill you.”

  “You might find that difficult,” al-Abbas shot back, despite the warning glance from Ziyax.

  “It would be much easier for me than you could possibly imagine,” Graham said casually.

  The wardroom fell silent for a beat.

  “Assuming we make it past Norfolk without detection, and into the York River, what then?” Ziyax asked.

  Graham didn’t answer at first, his eyes locked on al-Abbas. Finally the Libyan officer blinked and looked away.

  “We found the physics packages for two nuclear weapons in the battery room,” Graham said. “We’re going to mate them with the two cruise missiles and fire them on Washington.”

  Ziyax turned ashen. He shook his head. “I won’t be a party to this insanity. Colonel Quaddafi would never have authorized the transfer of this boat if he’d known your purpose.”

  “I said that we found the nuclear weapons. We didn’t bring them with us, they were already aboard for us to find.”

  Ziyax was struck dumb.

  “It will be up to you to keep your crew in line,” Graham warned. “If need be we’ll kill them all, and operate the boat ourselves. It would be difficult, but not impossible for us to reach the Chesapeake and launch the missiles.”

  “What about afterwards?” a subdued Ziyax asked. “Even in the confusion there’ll be a more than keen interest by the Americans to find out who launched against them.”

  “We’ll lock out through the escape trunk. A shrimper will be waiting on the surface to pick us up, and take us out to sea where we’ll rendezvous with a Syrian freighter.” Graham shrugged. “Then it’s a very slow boat back to Tripoli where you will be home and I will take my leave.”

  Ziyax passed a hand across his forehead as if he were trying to ease a headache. “You’re living in a world of fantasy,” he said tiredly. “We’ll all die, and I don’t know if I can convince my crew to do this thing. Perhaps they would rather die here fighting you than later in some American river.”

  “Together we’ll convince the crew,” al-Hari said, speaking for the first time.

  Ziyax turned to him. “How?”

  “We’ve brought a message from Osama bin Laden,” al-Hari said.

  “They may not care—”

  “And from Colonel Quaddafi.”

  No one said anything for a moment, especially the Libyans, who were struck dumb by the enormity of what they were facing.

  “I would like you to pick two volunteers from among your men to mate the nuclear packages to the pair of cruise missiles, and load them into tubes one and two,” Graham said. “After all, they are Iraqi weapons, and until recently your Colonel Quaddafi professed an admiration for Saddam Hussein.”

  CHEVY CHASE

  No one had warned Kathleen that her husband was back. When he walked in the front door of the CIA safe house she came to the head of the stairs, a pistol in her hand, her eyes wide.

  “My God,” she said, swallowing her words. “Kirk.” She was in blue jeans and a T-shirt, her feet bare, no makeup yet, her hair not done.

  She looked beautiful to McGarvey. He wanted to leave with her right now this morning and return to their new life in Sarasota without ever looking back, never having to look over his shoulder for fear that someone out of his past was gaining on them. Some monster intent on doing them harm, as had happened so many times in the past. He and the people who loved him had endured their own personal tragedies as devastating as 9/11 had been for all Americans. He wanted it to finally end, even though he knew with every fiber of his being that it could never be over for him.

  “Hi, Katy, I’m home,” he said, and smiled.

  She laid the gun on the hall table and raced down the stairs to him, flying into his arms. “Are you all right? Are you all right?”

  “Just a little tired. We didn’t get much sleep on the flight back. Where’d you get the gun?”

  “Elizabeth got it for me, and showed me how to use it.” She parted and looked closely at him. “Did you do it?” she asked, her voice soft.

  “No.”

  She digested his answer for a moment the
n nodded. “Are you hungry ?”

  “I could eat something,” McGarvey said, content for now to let her lead the discussion. But sooner or later they would get around to his next move.

  He took off his jacket, hung it on the coat tree, and followed her into the pleasant kitchen where he sat down at the center island. The safe house that the CIA had provided them was not as large as their old house here, or the one in Casey Key, but it was well laid out and furnished. The Company used it to house VIP visitors whom they wanted to keep away from the opposition or out of the public eye. Sometimes a live-in staff was provided, but whenever anyone was in residence, like now, a security detail watched from a second-floor apartment across the street. The house was wired with sophisticated monitoring equipment.

  “Where are your things?” Katy asked, pouring him a cup of coffee.

  “I had to leave most of it behind,” he said. “We were in a hurry.”

  “We?” Katy asked, setting his cup down in front of him.

  “Gloria Ibenez came over to backstop me. Wasn’t for her I might have been in some trouble.”

  Katy arched her left eyebrow. “Handy woman to have around in a pinch. I’ll have to thank her.” She smiled. “Bacon and eggs?”

  “Sounds good,” McGarvey told her. His wife had never been much of a cook, but since they had gotten remarried after a long separation she had improved, although she tended to overcook everything. But he wasn’t complaining.

  She busied herself with the food from the fridge and the pans and dishes, her back to her husband. “How much time do we have until you go back to finish the job?” she asked brightly. She turned to him and smiled. “Or would you have to kill me if you told me?”

  “Only if you burned my eggs,” he said. “Anyway I won’t be going far for the next week or so. Maybe we’ll do something with the kids over the weekend. We could rent a boat and take Audrey for her first sailing lesson on the river.”

  Katy started the bacon, and got out the bread for toast. “You have a timetable, which usually means something nasty is coming our way. Elizabeth refuses to tell me anything.”

  “We’re working on it, Katy.”

  “And I’ve never been able to get anything out of Todd,” Katy continued. Todd Van Buren was their son-in-law. “Of course Otto’s been in his own world lately and Louise claims she doesn’t know what’s going on.” Louise Horn was Rencke’s wife. She was working these days for the National Security Agency as director of its Satellite Photo Interpretation shop.

  “They can’t tell you anything, mostly because, except for Otto, they’re not on the list,” McGarvey said.

  Katy was suddenly brittle. She took a second frying pan out of the cupboard and slammed it on the stove. “I’m in the dark here, darling, and I goddamn well don’t like it!” She turned to him. “Toni Talarico’s husband came back to her in a body bag. Sorry sweetie, but your hubby died a hero, serving his country. Then they tried to kill her and the children at the funeral. Now what kind of shit is that?” Katy was practically screeching now.

  McGarvey got up and went around to her, taking her in his arms. “Bob did die serving his country, and nobody was trying to kill Toni and the kids at Arlington.”

  “You’re right,” Katy said, her eyes wild. “They were gunning for you. Why?”

  “Because I’m trying to stop them.”

  “From doing what?” Katy demanded. “For God’s sake, if there’s a possibility that you’re coming back to me in a body bag, I want to know why. What’s so fucking important?”

  “They’re going to attack us again. Maybe here in Washington, in about a week.” McGarvey brushed her hair away from her eyes. She was on the verge of crying, but she was no longer spinning out of control. “How about going back to Florida and—”

  “Not a chance,” she said.

  “This time when it’s over, it’ll really be over for me. I’ll stay retired. Promise.”

  Kathleen managed a small, tight smile. “I’ve heard that one before, more times than I care to count.”

  “We’ll see,” McGarvey said. “Are you okay now?”

  “Just peachy,” she replied. “Now sit down and have your coffee while I try not to burn your eggs.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  SS SHEHAB, MID-ATLANTIC

  The attitude that they were all going to die had seeped through the boat like a flu virus. No one spoke above a whisper, and for the past few days everyone had gone about their duties like mindless robots. Even al-Abbas had become docile.

  Graham rose from a light sleep around local apparent noon, five days out from Gibraltar, got a glass of tea from the galley, and went forward to the control room.

  “Captain on the con,” al-Hari called out.

  Ziyax, who was leaning over the chart table, looked up, but no one else bothered to respond. For now Graham preferred it that way. A tractable crew was an easily led crew, so long as there was no action. “As you were,” he said.

  They were running on diesel power at snorkel depth, and the entire boat stank of fuel oil. He stepped back to sonar. “Mr. Isomil, how does it look above?”

  The Libyan chief sonar operator looked up, his narrow face drooping, his eyes dull as if he were half-asleep. “We’re quite alone out here, Captain,” he said.

  Graham could see for himself that all three sonar scopes were blank. “Check again,” he said. “And if you still detect nothing, run a diagnostic. I want to make absolutely sure there are no targets within range.”

  “Yes, sir,” Isomil said, rousing himself.

  Graham went back to the control room, raised the search periscope, and did a slow three-sixty. It was a blustery day, with whitecaps in all directions to the horizon under a partly cloudy sky. But the waves hadn’t built up yet, so the motion aboard was still minimal. The conditions on the surface were perfect for what he wanted to do.

  A minute later Isomil called from sonar. “Captain, my machines are in good working order, and there are no surface or subsurface targets painting.”

  “Very well,” Graham said. “Keep a sharp eye for the next few hours.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Graham called the ESMs. “Ahmad, we’re going to run on the surface all afternoon. I want you to keep a very close eye on all frequencies, but especially on the military radar bands, both surface and air.”

  “Yes, sir. Cap’n, request permission to raise the Snoop Tray to take a look before we surface.”

  “Very well, but be smart about it.” Graham released the Push-to-Talk button on the intercom phone.

  Ziyax and the other officers were looking expectantly at him. He’d gotten their attention.

  “Prepare to surface the boat,” Graham ordered.

  “It’s still broad daylight,” Ziyax countered.

  Graham gave the Libyan captain a bland look. “This will be your last chance,” he said. “When I give an order I expect it to be carried out without hesitation or discussion. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The next time you question an order of mine I will shoot you, and dump your body overboard. Is that also quite clear?”

  Ziyax glanced at al-Abbas at the ballast board.

  “Yes, Captain, quite clear,” Ziyax said. “Diving Officer, prepare to surface the boat.”

  “Aye, prepare to surface,” al-Abbas repeated the order, with no hesitation.

  Graham keyed the phone. “ESMs, are we clear?”

  “Yes, we are, Cap’n,” Lieutenant Khalia answered.

  “Very well, keep a sharp eye,” Graham said. He hung up the phone. “Surface the boat, we need some fresh air in here. We stink like a pigsty.”

  Ziyax stiffened at the insult, but this time he did not delay. “Diving Officer, blow positive.”

  “Aye, sir, blowing positive,” al-Abbas repeated the order, and he began transferring compressed air from a pair of storage tanks into several ballast tanks and they started to slowly rise toward the surface.

  “Are w
e changing course now, sir?” Ziyax asked.

  They didn’t have a current ephemeris of the American spy satellites over this piece of the ocean, but Graham figured it was a safe bet that if the Shehab remained on the surface for the rest of the afternoon, at least one would fly overhead and spot them.

  “Negative,” he said. “Maintain your present heading, Captain.”

  CHEVY CHASE

  McGarvey and Katy were on their way out the door to catch an early movie and a pizza and beer afterwards, something they hadn’t done for a very long time, when the secure telephone rang. The last few days had been quiet, with nothing to do but enjoy their granddaughter and a little taste of their retirement. But McGarvey had been expecting the call. It was Rencke.

  “Oh wow, NRO spotted the sub in mid-Atlantic about an hour ago,” Rencke gushed excitedly.

  “Are we sure it’s the right one?” McGarvey asked.

  “Louise repositioned a Marvel-two and got a reasonable angle. Unless there’s a pair of Foxtrots crossing the big pond, she’s our boat.” The supersecret Marvel series of spy satellites had been put in high-earth orbit to watch all of Europe in response to the emergence of Germany as a new world power.

  “What’s her heading?”

  “Southwest, same as before,” Rencke said. “He’s heading for the ditch after all.”

  “I don’t think so,” McGarvey said. Last week he had pulled Graham’s jacket from the Directorate of Intelligence’s current People of Interest file, and spent a few hours studying the man’s background. Included were two psych evaluations that Rencke had managed to purloin from British Royal Navy records; the first just prior to Graham’s graduation from Perisher, and the second just prior to his discharge under other-than-honorable conditions.

  He had learned enough to understand that Graham was driven not only by a strong need for revenge against the people he felt were responsible for his wife’s death, but by a deep sense of pride. The man’s ego was like a rocket engine on his back with no cut-off switch.