Element 94

by Kleiner Jeffries

  Within an hour, the Seafin arrived within striking distance of the cargo freighter and came to a halt. Mack walked in on the diving unit congregated below deck.

  “Okay men. You’re up. Remember, one-way radio silence until we’ve taken her down. Any questions?” One-way radio silence meant simply command and control could communicate with the operatives, but their responses should be limited to the pre-ordained morse-type signals as indicated by a series of clicks produced by depressing a button on their communications gear. This would avoid any eavesdropping on board the target before she could be secured.

  “Yea, I’ve got a question.” It was Stevie. “How quickly can this piece of junk get us back home once we’re finished. It’s ladies night at H & H”. They all appreciated the importance of staying calm, and such banter was the best medicine.

  “Does your wife know what kind of a pig you are?” another of the men jibed.

  “Okay, enough”, Mack spoke a decibel higher now. You know what you have to do. Two minutes” And with that the operations chief left.

  Ali was oblivious to the freezing water as he began to submerge. He had experienced this rush numerous times before, and knew what to expect. The surrounding water brought down the interior temperature of the dry suit until his own body heat, supplemented by a heavy dose of adrenaline, would quickly equilibrate the temperature of the inner neoprene skin. He turned on the infrared sensors in his goggles and signaled to the other divers with a raised thumb. One by one, Stevie, Tommy, Mikey, A.J. and C.J. all returned the gesture; they were ready to go.

  He could see the men straining against the weight of their gear. The Kevlar-reinforced suits added some extra bulk, but the real culprits were the large canisters they each had strapped adjacent to their oxygen tanks. This was to be their first active engagement with the device, which gave Ali a sense of both pause and exhilaration. As team leader it was up to him to ensure the necessary precautions were in place, and he quickly surveyed everyone’s gear as they made their way into the darkness of the ocean depths.

  Ali’s greatest concern was not overtaking the vessel - that should be trivial. Rather, he was focused on the aftermath of the operation. Who knew what they were going to find? Did anyone at headquarters have the slightest clue? Did they know what Salaam was bringing with him to US shores? Were they prepared to deal with the consequences of a possible hazardous exposure?

  "Have they surfaced?" Mack asked into the radio. He was linked with Satellite command at Langely, which would relay the events on the surface of the ship as they unfolded. He didn't have a direct visual, and was relying on the verbal reports secondhand. The Primo would have afforded them direct access to the satellite feed, but that was a sacrifice to which he was now resigned.

  After a brief period of silence, Mack received a response.

  “Yes sir. We’ve got’em on a visual right now”. That meant the team was above the surface of the water and preparing to scale the side of the steel vessel. The six operatives were split into five teams, with the Muzzonigros operating together. They had the arduous task of sifting through the personnel on board and retrieving Salaam. Communication with those on board would be key. Arabic was the second language of the CTG since nineeleven, mandatory for most of its operatives. A.J. spoke the language fluently and was conversant in Spanish as well. The ship set sail from the port of Caruno in Spain, and it was to be assumed much of its crew could only communicate in Spanish. He was perfect for this mission. The younger C.J. was not as facile with the languages, but could get by. Mack decided to let the brothers operate together. Kelly was sure to have several Hispanic operatives at his disposal among the surface crew; until they were available, A.J. and C.J. would just have to make do.

  With the resources at hand, it was deemed the other operatives could manage individually, each assigned a specified task: Ali assault coordination and ad hoc assistance, Stevie lower cargo deck, Mikey upper cargo deck, Tommy engine room. Following an initial survey and inspection of the ship, and after all personnel were accounted for and subdued, the surface team could assist in the search for contraband and in the on-site interrogation of the sailors.

  Just then, Mack received a message from CIA headquarters.

  “Listen, one of your guys has got company”. The warning came just in time, the operatives about to commence their ascent to the ship’s deck. Mack was hoping, given the hour of the night and the frigid weather, there wouldn’t be much activity aboard.

  “Aw shit. Give me the details”

  Langley continued to image the vessel, informing the Seafin of the position and strength of the men on the freighter. Mack had to relay the data to his operatives quickly, before they could be spotted boarding the boat.

  "Mark 1" That was Stevie. Mack needed to tell him of the two men on the port side of the vessel, where he would emerge after scaling the ship’s hull.

  Steven Swoopes was about as smooth as they came, confidant but not brash, skilled, and supremely adept at a clandestine entry. Nevertheless, Mack wanted to make sure he had every advantage. An early alert to the team’s presence could be the difference between success and disaster.

  Mack heard a click in his earpiece. It was a reply from Stevie – he was receiving the transmission.

  “Any weapons?” Mack spoke into his receiver now, trying to get as much detail from Langley as he could.

  “Doesn’t appear to be, but we can’t be sure”

  “Tell them to wait”, Kelly said. He was at Mack’s side and suggested stalling Stevie’s climb aboard until the two sailors had retreated from their current position.

  “All hold”, Mack said to the operatives. One by one they acknowledged with their pre-ordained series of clicks. Kelly envisaged his men just wading in the frigid water, restless and itching to begin their assault on the vessel. This job required nerves of steel, that much was certain.

  “Son-of-a-bitch”, Stevie said to himself. His adrenaline was flowing now, that tingling sensation he often felt on the surface of his skin during such operations. He could overwhelm the two men above him, there was no doubt in his mind. But he knew what Mack was trying to do. If the men at his position retreated below deck, the team would have an easier time scaling the ship without alerting anyone on board. The last thing they wanted was a shootout on the surface, with so many sources of cover between the tangle of cargo containers. They needed to take this fight quietly to where the men were housed below deck.

  Mack and Kelly waited to hear from Langley. The minutes felt like hours as the CIA operatives sat in the communications room of the Seafin. After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was a period of about five minutes, Mack decided to check in again with headquarters.

  “Where are they now?” the former Delta officer asked. The reply was not reassuring.

  “They haven’t moved much, still on port, just aft of the rear boarding site”

  “Shit”, Mack blurted out loud. He looked at Kelly, who simply nodded in his direction. It had dawned on them both that these two men were possibly a lookout detail. Waiting for them to clear the area could be interminable.

  “Okay, go. Stevie, you’ve got a deuce right above you". Mack spoke matter-of-factly as he relayed the information to his agents. Another click – the message was received. Mack looked over to Kelly, who remained conspicuously silent. There was nothing more to say. Their man would just have to take care of business.

  Stevie made his way toward the Stern, guided by the communiqué from the Seafin. He began to scale the metal frame of the ship, emerging to the rear of the men on deck. As he reached the railing, he peered over the side to see if he could make out his targets. He quickly zeroed in on their bearings, their loud bantering guiding his senses. Quickly, silently, he pulled himself on board and took a position behind a container to their rear. The targets were walking away from him at a slow pace.

  Several viable options existed to subdue the pair. The simplest course of action would be to kill them both. Th
is could be done silently and most expeditiously. But that was not the preferred option. All aboard were terrorists until proven otherwise, but not all on board were necessarily terrorists. This was the great handicap, the Achilles heel it was said, of the Western operative dogma; to not only place a premium on life, but go to great means, even at the expense of endangering one's own life, to avoid harming innocent bystanders. Of course collateral damage could not be uniformly avoided during military or paramilitary offensives, but a measure of caution was always factored into the planning and execution of any operation. In this case, Stevie decided not to take the easy way out, as was his prerogative. Besides, it was far preferable to keep the pair alive, for if the two unsuspecting individuals were collaborating with Salaam, then they might provide valuable information under interrogation.

  With this in mind, Stevie walked stealthily towards the men, stopping not more than ten meters away. He needed to close the distance before striking if he was to utilize the precision required to subdue - but not vanquish - his foe. From this vantage, little was interposed between him and his targets. Should they hear anything, or just turn around by mere happenstance, then the operative might be made out.

  He stayed low, bending at the knees until he could easily touch the ground with his hands. He decided to risk removing the oxygen tank, the minimal noise he created would be more than drowned out by the sound of their voices, a deep guttural Spanish spoken with lively animation. Focusing in on his targets, Stevie could make out the men much better now. They were of similar build, moderate in height but thick around the chest, arms and belly. The gesticulations of one of the men enabled Stevie to see his hands – he held no weapon. Still, it would not be easy to overwhelm them by brute force. However he did have that most essential of elements - surprise - on his side.

  Before he could react, the two men came to an abrupt halt. Stevie noticed a hand reaching into a pocket. They still had their backs to him, as he now held his breath. Had they heard him? Was this man retrieving a weapon? Should he act right now, before it is too late? His finger rested on the trigger of his automatic. He really did not want to kill these two.

  The restraint the steely operative showed ultimately paid off – a pack of cigarettes emerging from the pocket of his target. They were simply stopping to have a smoke. Smoking really can kill a man – quite literally, Stevie thought amusingly as he released his finger from the 9 millimeter he now held before him. The lethality of the soft-point bullets in the weapon rendered the relatively small slugs highly deadly. As the bullets pierced skin, the modified tips caused the projectiles to flatten out markedly, greatly increasing their diameter and hence the ensuing carnage as they passed through vital structures. This was not his weapon of choice if these two were to be kept alive. Gingerly, Stevie replaced the automatic with a new device. Attached was a syringe containing a clear liquid, which he removed and placed in his pocket. He would need to act fast, or else the pair might be lost.

  The glow from a match showed brilliantly through the greenish hue of the infrareds. Combined with the natural moonlight, the illumination now rendered the operative vulnerable to identification. Reflexively, Stevie crouched lower, careful to avoid being seen, the flicker of light from the burning cigarettes still glowing brilliantly. Their bantering had stopped now, and the silence on the ship was deafening. Without warning, a rattling, metallic sound suddenly broke through the quiet night air, startling the sailors. They quickly darted their heads in the direction of the noise – away from Stevie’s position. It must be one of his fellow operatives! The men quickly gathered themselves and hastily made their way towards the suspicious sound. The window of opportunity was quickly closing; he needed to act now. Without hesitation, Stevie depressed the trigger to his weapon. A series of whizzing sounds could be heard as four muffled shots were fired.

  The men collapsed to the ground with a thud, their legs suddenly limp. Stevie hesitated momentarily, could see a hand slowly struggling to make its way off the ground. He felt both relieved and concerned as the hand harmlessly retreated to the deck, too weak to overcome its own weight, the force of gravity rendering it still on the cold hard surface of the ship. Their bodies began to writhe sluggishly, as if in slow motion, their breathing labored. They were dying.

  Stevie lurched from his position to assess the damage. Time was of the essence – he was positioned over his fallen targets within seconds. White froth appeared at the dependent corner of the first man's mouth, the saliva falling in long stringy streams on the ship’s deck, mixing in with the beads of sweat from the man’s forehead. Stevie recognized the signs of cholinergic poisoning. The man’s eyes were agape, showing both an awareness and sheer fright at the sight of the soldier looming above. All the projectiles had found their mark. He examined the second man, who was now visibly gasping, fighting to pull oxygen from the cool night air into his weakened lungs. A trickle of blood coursed from a wound in his neck.

  The bleeding was minimal, little more than a prick. The poison contained on the tip of the projectile, however, was already coursing through the man's circulation. An organophosphate-based product, it quickly caused a surge of a chemical called acetylcholine at synaptic junctions, wreaking havoc on the conduction of nerve impulses in the body. Those junctions, where the nerves met with one another and with target organs, serve as relay stations, communicating information within the body, sending commands to the muscles, both voluntarily and involuntarily. One of those involuntary commands directs a person’s diaphragm to contract at regular intervals, creating negative pressure within the chest cavity and pulling air into the lungs. In this case the stimulus for breathing was abruptly becoming weakened, and would eventually cease altogether. It was clear his two victims would succumb to oxygen deprivation as this most crucial of muscular activity waned.

  He kneeled down and quickly produced the syringe from his pocket, injecting each man with a bolus of the anticholinergic. It was the most basic of medicines, used in cardiopulmonary resuscitation for decades. Once total paralysis set in, a man had less than five minutes in which partial to total recovery might rescue the delicate cells of the brain. This window of time was even smaller considering the time it took for the antidote Stevie was carrying to take effect. In this case, the medication reduced the saturation of the chemical at the synaptic junction, thereby reversing the effects of the poison. The scientists had settled on use of a paralyzing agent, in addition to the immediacy of its action, because of the ability to quickly reverse its toxicity. A non-lethal dose of even the most potent of tranquilizers, on the other hand, could not have subdued its victim with such efficiency. Acute paralysis was the method of choice. But the antidote Stevie administered now had to overcome a much more powerful toxin, one engineered to act quickly and take effect before any alarm, verbal or otherwise, could be signaled from its intended victim.

  Stevie had heard rumors the poisonous compound used to incapacitate the men was refined clandestinely by Kelly’s scientific and technology anti-terror (STAT) group, in violation of the newly enacted biological and chemical monitoring treaty. He didn’t care much about international law, but at this moment was simply concerned for the lives of the two sailors. Surprised at acknowledging such feelings in the heat of battle, Stevie simply couldn’t deny the remorse he felt for these two as he watched them struggling for breath. Perhaps it was the fact no weapons were in their possession, a look of innocence on their faces. Were they even terrorists? Did they deserve such a death?

  It felt like an eternity, but slowly, gradually, the sallow hue covering the faces of the poisoned men quickly began reverting back to its normal ruddiness. Their breathing evened, their pulse responding to the medication with a surge. The fine line they straddled as combat soldiers, administering a lethal dose of toxin only to bring their victims back from the brink of death, had seemed to work. Stevie was relieved the line hadn’t been crossed, one way or the other; the toxin was potent enough to ensure immediate incapacity, and the remedy
quick enough to reverse its effects before inflicting any permanent damage.

  Stevie now regrouped, his commando mentality once again dominating his thought processes. He had to move quickly to catch up to the others, the rest of the team awaiting his signal so they could launch a synchronized assault below decks where the bulk of the crew was holed. But first he had to secure the prisoners, quickly. Their health – and strength – was returning fast. They must not be allowed the opportunity for a retaliatory gesture.

  Stevie expertly bound their arms and legs, and placed tape across their mouths to prevent them from verbalizing a warning. He paused ever so briefly to ensure they could breath normally through their nasal passages. Before he left, he uttered a conciliatory, “Esta Bien “. The men, still stunned, just looked at him with blank eyes – good enough, he thought, and then took off to scour his zone and ensure the deck was secure.

  A nautical mile from where the CTG was conducting its operation, an Arab and Chechen freedom fighter stood against the railing of their own vessel and surveyed the horizon with binoculars. Just within view, the freighter they had been stalking could be seen in the bright moonlit sky. The night was quiet and peaceful, although they knew this would not be the case for long. They were well aware the American assault was under way, but it was not yet clear in what capacity – if at all – they would be needed. But they were prepared.

  “Do we have word yet Yuri?”

  Yuri, a Chechen, had joined Sayf Udeen in desperation. The Chechen resistance had been shattered, and most of his fellow guerrillas had either been killed or melted away harmlessly to the countryside. But Yuri was not yet ready to surrender his cause. Sayf Udeen was all that stood in the way of the forces of the West. His mantra of Islamic domination over Chechnya could now be realized only through this resilient organization. And now, after months of collaboration, he was left with a semblance of respect and awe for these freedom fighters, although some measure of distrust remained. He knew his unique value to their operations. He and others of his Muslim-Chechen brethren were increasingly being employed for intelligence purposes. As Caucasians, they could blend in the Western world far more easily than his dark-skinned companions.