Element 94

by Kleiner Jeffries

  “No, not yet. Perhaps we can send a team to investigate.”

  “No Yuri, that won’t be necessary. Faarooq will let us know if and when we are needed.”

  “And what if he doesn’t. What if they’re on to him. I don’t like this Azeez. The Americans might spot us. You know about them and their damn satellites”

  “Yes, I know Yuri. It is a chance we all take.”

  “What if we don’t hear anything? What if Faarooq fails?”

  “I am told he cannot fail. I am told if we hear nothing, we do nothing.”

  “And then what. All this time. All this preparation. We cross an ocean for nothing?!”

  “Yuri, you have another job to do. As for us, we go back. “

  As mission leader, Ahmad Abdul-Azeez reported directly to the officer corps of Sayf Udeen. He was charged not only with this critical task at hand, but with restraining his comrades. For they were all anxious for martyrdom – all except perhaps Yuri. He might have to keep an eye on this one.

  “Patience my friend, patience”, the leader added. Yuri turned to face him, a growl on his face. Azeez knew the Chechen hated to be kept waiting like this. The reaction was not lost on the more senior Sayf Udeen warrior. He knew the large Muslim brother was a good man, but one who simply lacked inner strength. He must be kept on a short leash.

  Purposefully changing the subject, Azeez asked “Have you taken care of the American?” The reference to their “captain”, Russell Bellow, brought a smirk to the Chechen’s face.

  “Oh, you won’t be hearing from that filthy pig again.”

  So this man relished torture and killing, thought Azeez, as he filed away a mental note about his associate. That might come in handy down the road.

  Satisfied the two would not be able to alert those below, Stevie went back to retrieve his oxygen tank. He thought about leaving it behind, wary of dragging the added load. He shouldn't need to submerge again, but Ali had cautioned to prepare for any contingency. It was a lesson the team leader had learned from his Somalia experience. As part of the force entering the heart of Mogadishu in 1993, the soldiers were totally unprepared for the long drawn-out battle that ensued. They hadn't even carried simple provisions like water canteens. It was a mistake the seasoned veteran determined would not be repeated. Stevie heeded the advice, retrieved the tank and strapped it to his back. He never imagined the decision would prove life saving.

  "They're in place", Mack said, transmitting the report from Langely. All five special forces divers were on board. The men on the deck of the ship were subdued. They had not put up much of a fight. Could they be wrong about this target? Kelly thought, second-guessing himself as he followed the events from the safety of the cutter. Salaam was there, that much was certain. He would just have to be patient and wait for the signal to engage. It didn't take long.

  Ali transmitted to his team using their preordained signal; two clicks, followed by a pause, followed by one more click. The signals could be communicated silently, heard by the other operatives through their earpieces. They responded in kind. Everyone was in position – all five approaches beneath the surface of the deck were covered. There would be no escape for those below. Ali signaled once again, and immediately pulled the pin on the canister in his hand, releasing the weapon into the open hatch. One by one, the other operatives followed suit, letting loose a simultaneous volley of the gaseous arms into the confines of the unsuspecting vessel. The colorless, odorless sedative would permeate the interior of the ship in seconds. Any enclosure with ventilation would be infiltrated.

  Ali alerted the Seafin to begin her approach, and slowly made his way forward, gas mask drawn over his face. He knew where to go, the map of the vessel still vivid in his mind. His colleagues in arms would act accordingly, each covering his preordained tasks. Once Salaam and the others were accounted for, they could communicate and move about the vessel more freely.

  The soldiers made their way down the narrow corridors, systematically marking every passageway, every escape route. The sleeping quarters would be approached last, awaiting the noxious gas to fully take effect. They began their inspection of the vast ship, careful to avoid any booby traps along the way. The Muzzonigro brothers went to find Salaam, guided by the signal from the Hermes chip. The other team members would begin to pore through the cargo and secure the vital centers of the ship.

  Rafik Salam ran down to the engine room. He knew there was no hope of escape, but he was determined not to fall into the hands of his enemy. No, martyrdom would be his fate; and he planned to go to Allah in style. This was not how the mission was supposed to end, but he was prepared; a contingency plan was in place. He wondered how the Americans discovered his approach. Tremendous care went into the planning and execution of this mission. Would Ra'ed know of his sacrifice? Surely the outcome would displease his leader, but Salaam – now known among the inner sanctum as Mustafah – hoped not to disappoint.

  As he entered the engine room, Salaam could see the navigator slumped in his chair, rendered unconscious from the gas the despicable Americans were using. He adjusted his own mask, now fully aware of the potency of the weapon being used against them. He must move quickly. They would surely be making their way to this vital hub momentarily.

  Salaam reached into his bag and removed the plastique, assembling the explosive device adjacent to the steering column. Should his plans stall, he wanted to ensure the ship would be rendered dead in the water, unable to be shepherded away from the watchful eyes of his allies. For there were others nearby, loyalist fedayin fighters who might then have ample opportunity to intervene. He did not know the contents being transported, but was aware of the premium placed on the cargo. They would tend to the precious containers, but it was up to him to make the first move. A second bomb was smartly placed in the rear, adjacent to the fuel tanks. All evidence would effectively be destroyed – along with plenty of lives, he thought. Synchronizing the detonations would surely maximize the devastation and casualties to his enemies. He envisioned the infidels scrambling from the one explosive right into the heart of the second. The Americans would learn a painful lesson on this night. These yahoo soldiers - they would meet their fate along with him.

  Salaam quickly set the timer on the fuse and turned to leave. Time was of the essence now, and there was one very important task that required his attention. As he motioned toward the exit, he was suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. Before him stood a soldier adorned in black garb. Salaam could not make out the man’s face behind the protective mask, but was certain he was looking at one of the American GIs; a point made abundantly clear by the hollow end of an American-made M-16 pointed in his direction.

  The cutter lurched forward as Captain Hillebrand ordered his men to close in on the ship. It took a few long minutes before they were astride. The vessel still carried the momentum of its engines, although it was clear all power had been turned off. The engine room had already been breached. Good, Mack thought, just as planned.

  "Who's in charge here?" the special ops commander asked

  No answer. Mack was satisfied by the silence. He ordered his men aboard. The two terrified captives on the ship's deck were quickly brought before him, their gags removed.

  "Who's in charge here?", he repeated. Still no answer. The men shook visibly, obviously terrified. "Easy now Mack", Kelly whispered into his ear. They had agreed Mack would issue all verbal commands so as not to alert anyone to Kelly's presence. A bullet intended to strike at the mission commander, Mack bravely insisted, should be directed his way.

  Mack turned to Kelly and nodded. It was quite clear these two were no threat.

  "Capitan, donde la capitan". Mack spoke gently now. The captives signaled below deck.

  "What is the problem. Why you stop us?", one of the men mustered in a broken English.

  "US coast guard. We have reason to believe there's contraband on board. We demand you be boarded"

  "Contraband?"

  The men seemed genuinely
puzzled.

  "No drug here", the other captive added.

  "We'll see about that", Mack continued, careful to continue their ruse as coast guard inspectors. "Alpha, Delta, Tango - go" (correct jargin?), he commanded, ordering his forces on board the cargo freighter. The deck was suddenly teeming with CTG soldiers as they began to inspect the hulking vessel.

  Salaam fingered the weapon in his back pocket. He knew he didn't stand a chance against the soldier before him, but he had to try. He must salvage the precious cargo at all costs.

  "Okay, I will take you to what you're looking for", Salaam said in an English so smooth it was almost impossible to tell he was not speaking in his native tongue. His hands were raised innocently above his head.

  "No, that's okay", the soldier answered in the terrorist’s native tongue, his own Arabic refined by years of practice on the front lines of the war on terror. Salaam stiffened when he heard the voice, clearly surprised by its authenticity, spoken like a native, with no discernable accent whatsoever

  "I'll take care of everything from here", the CIA operative continued. He glanced over to the bomb, back to the befuddled terrorist.

  Salaam stared at the man in disbelief. Who was this man? he thought, lowering his arms to his side. The soldier before him made no motion at all. The weapon still lay leveled in his direction, but the man had not fired. His own gun was now readily accessible in his pocket. Should he try and make a motion towards it? Salaam didn’t think he could draw his gun and fire it quickly enough, but if he caught the man by surprise? He could move laterally while he drew his own gun and then fire. It was like one of those classic shootouts in old Western movies he had seen back when he lived in the United States. He just might win this battle, Salaam reasoned.

  “Mustafah, do not worry. Everything will be fine”, the operative intoned. Salaam’s eyes grew wide, almost mystified. “Faarooq”, Salaam mumbled gently to himself. All thoughts of escape now vanished. Lowering his head, he began muttering his prayers and closed his eyes. Before he could finish his reverent gesture, a bullet ripped through his heart, rendering his body lifeless as it slumped to the ground.

  “Salaam - I do not know this man”, the captive said in a broken English.

  “This man, is this man here on board?” Mack showed the Spaniard a picture of Salaam from his days in detention in Cuba.

  “Oh, Mustafah, yes, he is here.”

  “Where is he? What is he doing here?”

  “He sleeps alone. In the forward cabin. He buy a safe passage to America.”

  It was quickly becoming clear the two captives knew nothing of the terrorist’s background.

  “And what of his things. Does he carry anything? Did he bring anything aboard?”

  “No, we know nothing. His room locked always. Strange man. You come for him?”

  Mack didn’t answer the question. He picked up the radio receiver and tried to reach the men below.

  “Mark 2, do you read me?” That was A.J. and C.J.

  “Loud and clear sir.” One-way radio silence was now moot. Anyone without protective gear was effectively rendered immobilized from the sedative gas.

  “Any sign of Salaam?”

  “Not yet sir.” It was A.J. “No sign of him in the main sleeping quarters. The rest of the crew was there, sleeping like babies; but no sign of our man”

  “Check the forward cabin, second deck. He’s been bunking up alone. Apparently bought himself some private quarters.”

  “Roger that”

  It wasn’t more than five minutes later that A.J. checked in again with the operations officer.

  “Sir, noone here.”

  “Are you sure you got the right place?”

  “Yes sir, he was here all right. Found a Koran, an Arabic paper.”

  “Shit. Well keep looking.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Got an empty syringe here”

  “What?” Mack was starting to suspect the worst.

  “Might be atropine, can’t tell. A stimulant perhaps.” A.J. and C.J. collected the syringe and what little evidence they could, and left the quarters.

  “Alright, keep looking. Men, the target may be active. I repeat, the target may be active”

  Mack knew everyone could hear the conversation between him and A.J., but wanted to press upon the men that Salaam may have been prepared for a chemical assault. They needed to keep their guard up. Little did Mack, or anyone else know, Salaam was already dead, and that the killer was a far deadlier threat than any they had ever encountered before. For they were the best there is, and the enemy was now one of them.

  Salaam's killer quickly turned off the engines and moved to examine the bomb. Time was of the essence. He made his way to the cargo bay at the lower level of the ship. The room was half empty, and it didn't take long to find what he was looking for. He isolated several containers, attaching a small device to each, and opened a hatch on the side of the vessel. Hoisting them up one by one, he began throwing the containers overboard into the choppy waters. The dense contents forced the packages to the sea bottom.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" said a voice from the doorway. The voice was muffled through the gas mask; it must be one of his fellow CTG operatives. He had his back to the man and nonchalantly closed the door to the hatch.

  “Found this portal open. Someone might have evaded the gas and escaped.” he lied. It did not matter much, the task at hand was nearly completed, with most of the cargo now out of harm’s way. One final lead canister lay on the floor. It would be detected by the fedayin nearby if not destroyed.

  "Have you found anyone?”, the killer added, turning with his rifle affixed before him. Without warning, his finger depressed the trigger, releasing a volley of lead that ripped through the unsuspecting operative, beyond the reach of the man's protective vest.

  “Who… the…”. The operative was struggling to speak, the words muffled by the blood accumulating in his lungs and the protective gas mask still covering his face.

  “It’s okay Gene”, the killer said after removing the protective mask from the stricken soldier. “This will make it easier.”

  “You…”, Gene gasped. That was the last word he would utter as the noxious fumes depressed his respiratory centers.

  The sound of footsteps diverted the killer’s attention from the felled operative. There were others lurking near. Gene was part of the secondary assault unit – how many men were now below decks? he wondered. Whoever was out there was closing in on his position. He peered out of the frame of the doorway, could hear men approaching from both directions. His eyes darted one last time in either direction, and then systematically everywhere else for any outlet of escape. It was useless; there was no way out. Had they heard the gunshots? Would anyone suspect him? He couldn't take a chance. And he couldn't let them recover the dead soldier's body. Ballistics would easily pinpoint him as the shooter. There was only one option left. He picked up his radio and placed the call.

  “Go now!” yelled Azeez in Arabic. He put the radio receiver back in the cradle, grabbed the harpoon and moved to the diving platform. The message from the freighter had been received. Azeez had never spoken with this great man before, the one who had somehow managed to infiltrate one of the most coveted posts within the American security network – the Counter-Terrorism unit of the CIA. For he was certain this was another of the notorious and feared special operations led by the seemingly omniscient and omnipotent new arm of the US spy agency. Today, however, would mark a turning point. Today, his people were the capable spies, and justice and Allah would prevail. There was no doubt the upper hand was theirs, and it was now up to Azeez to secure the victory. But they must make haste.

  Azeez checked the transmitter holstered to his belt. It would serve as a guide. Events had not unfolded quite as planned. It seemed their services would be needed after all. Their long and arduous journey now had meaning, and would soon reach its climax. Yuri had taken care of the American. He was still alive, but barely. The fi
lthy man might serve one last purpose before he was to be vanquished - permanently. But first they had a search and rescue mission of utmost importance.

  The ocean depths provided much protection from the ever-present eyes of the Western spy capabilities, but dangers still abounded. He checked his gear, comforted by the weapon now strapped to his back. His comrades were ready to go, and one by one they submerged. Swimming hastily towards the freighter in a spread formation so as to cover as much breadth of space as possible, the terrorists made certain to maintain clear visualization of one another. They lacked the sophisticated communication devices their enemies had to radio each other under water, but that was a luxury they would never dare use. The Americans were notorious for intercepting such signals. One extravagance they did possess was infrared, enabling them to see with remarkable clarity in the stark darkness of the deep sea. If all went well, they should be back to their ship and on their way East by daybreak. All except Yuri, that is.

  Back on the Seafin, Mack was receiving another message – this one with grave repercussions. It was Ali.

  "M, we've got to get out of here. I just found a Bomb, by the fuel tanks. Can't defuse it. We've got no time. The cutter's got to go. Now."

  "Emergency evac, everybody back", Mack shouted. The men all carried wireless earpieces to facilitate communications. They all received the warning. Soldiers immediately started pouring back to the Seafin from the seemingly doomed freighter.