Qayyum stood behind the kneeling fishermen and began speaking. Every few sentences he paused.
“I am translating the words of Qayyum ali Adham.” Mohammad said to the camera. “These two infidels are Allah’s enemies. They have invaded our camp. They have brought war to the followers of Mohammed.”
“No!” the younger prisoner shouted. “We didn’t mean anything. We were just jokin’ around.”
Mohammed slammed the barrel of his rifle against the man’s head. The prisoner yelled out in pain.
“Quiet, infidel.”
Ahmad started to speak, then caught himself. He didn’t know what was happening, but was afraid to object.
“Now, with this statement,” Mohammed began translating for Qayyum once again, “we are declaring a right and just war, a holy Jihad, against the unbelieving state of Canada. We will no longer stand by and allow the American’s puppets to help in the war against Islam. This country has blindly followed all orders from the Great Satan Bush. They must be made to pay for their sins. They must realize the long reach of the arm of God.”
Ahmad saw Qayyum draw a curved scimitar from the scabbard at his side. He caught his breath as Qayyum raised the sword over his head.
****
Port McNeil, Canada
Ted looked up and down the docks. His spider sense went wild.
“The Defiant’s gone.” Chris’s voice went up two octaves.
All three tried to shake off the effects of the alcohol.
“Look. There.” Meagan pointed beyond the breakwater. “Is that her?”
Ted’s gaze followed her pointing finger. A dim shape floated with the tide, moving rapidly towards the reef off Lodge Point. There was enough ambient light from the town for Ted to make out the sharp bow, bulging beam and reverse transom that characterized the C&C 40.
“What’s she doing there?” Chris stammered. “How did she get out of the marina?”
“Who gives a shit?” Ted shouted. “That’s our ticket home.”
He glanced around at the marina. “Here, that big boat. They have what we need.” Ted ran up the dock a few boats. “WOOHOO!” He leapt across the water into a grey inflatable dinghy. “Indiana Teddy and the Dinghy of Doom!”
“But, that’s not our boat,” Meagan said.
Ted ignored her, pulled out the choke knob on the outboard and jerked the starter chord. The motor caught on the first pull.
“You guys comin’?” He untied the painter from the cleat on the yacht’s deck.
Chris and Meagan dropped from the dock into the inflatable as Ted put the outboard into reverse and backed away from the cruiser.
He opened the outboard to full throttle as soon as they were clear of the slip. The dinghy flew across the water throwing a bow wave and wake that rocked the other boats in the marina. Ted raced past the breakwater towards the dark shape of the Defiant.
It only took a few minutes to cross the black water and close with the sloop. Chris grabbed the stern pulpit and climbed aboard, painter in hand. Ted looked over his shoulder. The Defiant drifted relentlessly towards the reef.
Chris pushed the starter button as Meagan and Ted clambered over the rail. Nothing happened.
“What the hell?” Chris jumped down the companionway stairs in one step.
“Wait for me, ‘mano.” Ted followed him down.
In the cabin, Chris flipped the switch on the light over the chart table. It didn’t come on. He reached back to the light over Ted’s berth. It wouldn’t turn on either.
Ted watched him fumble with the battery selector switch next to Ted’s bed.
“God damn it. I can’t see a thing.”
“Here,” Ted reached for the flash light on the shelf over his bunk. “This’ll help.”
“The battery switch is on ‘All.’ The main power switch is on. The bastards must have cut the battery cable.”
“Guys!” Meagan screamed from the cockpit. “Those rocks are getting really close!”
Ted felt an almost imperceptible bump, then the Defiant’s motion stopped.
“SHIT!” Chris yelled. “We’ve gone aground!”
He and Ted flew up the stairs to the cockpit.
Meagan stood at the wheel with a helpless look on her face. “Chris! We’ve got to get away from those rocks!”
The Defiant wasn’t drifting any closer to the rocks.
“Thank God!” Chris breathed a sigh of relief. “We must have grounded in the mud before we got to the rocks. We’re on a rising tide. Let’s get the sails up.”
Chris took the wheel. Ted went to his post on the cabin roof and watched Meagan slip the handle into the halyard winch. He untied the stoppers on the sail and Meagan began cranking. The head of the main sail rose as Ted channeled each slide into the groove on the mast. As the sail made its way up the mast, the Defiant pivoted into the wind.
“Get the jib unfurled,” Chris barked. “I think I felt her move.”
Ted flipped the lever on the jam cleat and dropped back into the cockpit. Meagan was already putting the handle into the sheet winch. Ted grabbed the jib sheet and began hauling it in. The big jib unfurled into the steady breeze.
With the wind in the sails, the Defiant showed life, but she was still hard aground.
“Meagan, stand by the wheel.” Chris ran to the foredeck. “Ted, get the dinghy started. I’m going to pass you the anchor.”
Ted bounced down the swim steps and dropped into the dinghy. He stood and grabbed the Defiant’s lifelines and pulled himself forward to Chris.
“Okay,” Chris lowered the anchor into the dinghy. “Take the anchor as far out in the channel as the rode will go, drop it over, then get back here pronto.”
Ted followed Chris’s instructions. In a matter of minutes he was climbing back up the swim steps into the cockpit.
“What now, dude?”
“I’m going to attach the end of the anchor line to a halyard. We’ll winch in on the anchor from the top of the mast. That should make her heel over enough to free the keel.”
“Christ!” Ted stubbed his toe on a jam cleat in the dark.
Chris ignored him and made the anchor line fast to the spinnaker halyard; Ted inserted the handle in the port halyard winch.
“Okay, haul her in,” Chris shouted.
Ted put both hands on the winch handle and cranked. At first, it turned easily. Then the anchor line went taunt and he couldn’t turn it anymore.
“Let me help.” Chris dropped into the cockpit and put his hands over Ted’s on the handle. With the extra hands, the handle moved. Slowly at first, then a little faster.
Click by click the Defiant began to heel over. The anchor line attached to the top of the mast pulled tighter and tighter.
There was a bump, then the Defiant came free. Suddenly she was a living thing again.
“Keep her close to the wind,” Chris shouted at Meagan. “We’ve got to get the anchor up,” he yelled at Ted.
Ted slacked off on the halyard as the boat moved towards the anchor. Chris grabbed the line and started hauling it aboard. Within minutes they completed the maneuver, the anchor was in its chocks, the dinghy made fast and the Defiant sailing away from the rocks.
“Meagan, stay on the wheel. Ted and I need to find out what’s wrong with the electrical system.
Ted headed down the companionway stairs.
“Hand me a flashlight, bro.” Chris lifted the lid to the lazarette and dropped down the deep hatch.
Ted flipped on his own flashlight and began to take the cover off of the electrical panel.
“Here it is!” Chris shouted from behind him. “The bastards cut the electric cable from the battery.”
“They sure as hell didn’t want to take a chance on us saving the boat.” Ted screwed the electrical panel back in place.
“Hand me a knife and some electrician’s tape.” Chris’s voice came up from the bowels of the boat.
Ted pawed through the tool box and found a Barlow pocket knife and a roll of bl
ack tape. “Here.” He leaned into the lazarette to hand the tools to Chris.
“This’ll only be a temporary fix. I’m going to splice the line back together. Youch!” Chris jumped back from the battery box and slammed his head into the hatch cover as a shower of sparks flew from the cable. “Shit. Get me a crescent wrench. I have to take the cable off of the battery.”
Ted handed the wrench down to Chris and held the flashlight for him.
The lights suddenly came on in the cabin.
“If I ever get my hands on that son-of-a-bitch, I’m gonna kill him.” Chris crawled out of the lazarette rubbing the back of his head. “Shooting at us is one thing, but trying to destroy a man’s boat. That’s something else altogether.”
“You’re gonna have to take a number, dude.”
Chris took the wheel back from Meagan. “Let’s get out of here.” He tacked the Defiant towards the marina.
“How did she get out here?” Meagan asked.
“Yves musta done this.” Ted’s mind raced. “He doesn’t want us on the water. He wants us to go home. It had to be that John-Paul dude.”
“Now I understand why he was so anxious to invite us to dinner,” Chris said. “He wanted to get us away from our boat. First he tries to keep us from going into Nelson Inlet, then he runs us into the whirlpool. Now this. He has to be in business with the Arabs.”
“Jack’s right,” Meagan said. “Port McNeil isn’t safe. Let’s get out of here. Go to Double Bay like he suggested and wait to hear from him.”
“We need to return the dinghy first,” Ted said. “I don’t want grand theft – dinghy on my record.”
****
William and Mary Island, Canada
“This is the sword of God,” Mohammed translated for the video camera. “It has been blessed by the Imams in Mecca. It has been ordered into battle by the great leaders of our cause. It will be wielded by the right arm of God himself.”
Qayyum held the tip of the sword near the fisherman’s neck. The intruder broke down crying, crumpling to the ground. Ahmad started to move towards him but Mohammed thrust his arm across Ahmad’s chest, stepped forward and dragged the man back to his knees.
“With this act, we show there is no safe place in this world for the unjust.” After each sentence, Qayyum paused for Mohammed to translate into English. “The cause we fight for is right and just, it is Allah’s cause.”
With each burst of words, Ahmad’s heart rate inched up. It was difficult to breathe.
“What’re you rag-heads up to?” One of the fishermen shouted out with fear. “What’re you gonna to do with us?”
Qayyum said something in Arabic.
“You’re out of your fuckin’ minds,” the captive shrieked.
Qayyum touched the tip of his blade to the infidel’s neck. Ahmad’s mind froze. He was riveted to the ground. He watched the upswing of the scimitar, the blade a blur in the sunlight as it made its swift downward arch. The fisherman’s hooded head toppled free from his body, a stream of blood spurting up from each side of the stub of his neck.
Chapter 53
Vancouver, Canada
The light was dim in the old bar. Located along the rough waterfront section of Vancouver B.C., it could have been any bar in any seaport in the world. A cloud of smoke clung to the ceiling, neon beer signs crowded the mirrored wall behind the bar. The walls reeked of tobacco smoke, alcohol and sweat. Men gathered around the bar or at tables ignoring the music blaring from a juke box.
Rick Sorensen, a tall, slender middle-aged man with short-cropped gray hair, sat at the bar nursing his Canadian Club. He wore cowboy boots, jeans, a Seattle Mariners baseball cap and a worn leather flight jacket with a shield-shaped tan patch with a horse’s head, the insignia of the First Cavalry Division, on the shoulder. Looking up from his drink, he saw an old man shuffling through the door. It can’t be!
Limping slightly from his bad knees, the old man made his way through the gloom and smoke to the bar. Rick watched as he surveyed the patrons.
“Rick Sorensen, y’ ol’ bastard, I thought I’d find y’ here lad,” the old man said.
“Jack? Jack MacDonald? Are you still alive? I thought they’d have gotten you long ago.”
Rick rocketed to his feet and embraced Jack, ignoring the rough surroundings in which they found themselves.
“What brings you to the big city, you old son of a bitch?”
“You, Rick. I’ve been looking fer you.” Jack still had his hands on Rick’s shoulders. He gave him a quick pat.
“And? . . . “
“I need your help, son. I need your particular skills. Can y’ still make a helicopter defy the laws of physics?”
Those words stirred a long-suppressed memory in Rick’s mind. He heard the thud of the chopper blades, smelt the cordite from the mini-gun blazing away in the open doorway, tasted the dense jungle air. Was it Quezon province where he first encountered Jack? Hard to remember. He shut all of those memories away. Locked them tight in a safe he never wanted to open again. Now, just hearing the sound of Jack’s voice, the lilt of his brogue, made the tumblers fall into place and the door swing wide.
“What are y’ doing these days, lad?”
Jack’s words brought Rick back to the present. “I’m still flying choppers. In the winter, I ferry back-country skiers up the mountains, in the summer I take tourists chasing whales. I’ve become a God damned bus driver.” Rick broke free from Jack’s grasp and settled onto his stool.
“I dinna imagine y’ encounter much hostile fire on those missions. Y’ never need to slip in on a dark monsoon-filled night, eh?”
“Milk runs; all milk runs. But, it pays the rent.” Rick sipped at the Canadian Club in his glass.
“How would y’ like a little excitement back in your life?” Jack sat on the stool next to Rick.
“What did you have in mind?”
Rick listened to the Jack’s story. He picked up on the part about the terrorist having SAMs. They’d already fired on those kids, so they weren’t afraid to use them.
“Let me get this straight. You want me to ferry you up there to reconnoiter these terrorists? And you know that they’re armed with SAMs?” Rick swirled the whiskey in his glass with his index finger, then licked the finger. “What are you, crazy? You’re an old man. What can you do about all of this? Jack, just report it to the authorities and walk away. We’re out of that business now.” Rick signaled the bartender for a refill.
“No, m’ lad, I canna do that. By the time the bureaucracy realizes there’s a threat it’ll be too late. Look at the Americans. They had all sorts of warnings about 9/11 and didna act. Do y’ think our Ministry of Defense will be any better? Thousands of people are going to die, then they’ll mount an all out investigation to find out what happened.” A sly smile spread across Jack’s face.
“Besides, I’m not going up there, m’ boy. Y’ are. Y’re right. I’m too old for this kind of work. I need y’ to go up, take a look around, let me know what y’ see. Then I can figure out what to do next.”
“Jack, you’re out of your f-in’ mind. If I take one of the Sky-Tours birds up there, I’ll be unarmed. I’ll be a sitting duck. You need two birds that can cover each other for this kind of mission. I’d need a .50-cal and a gunner . . .”
“I’ve only got you, lad.” Jack signaled for a drink. “I’ve only got you. Remember that night in the Mekong Delta? Yer bird went down. If old Jack hanna been there t’ put a tourniquet on your leg, y’ wouldna be here now.”
“God damn you, old man.” Rick stared into his Canadian Club. “So, when I get up there, what do you want me to do?”
“Here take this,” Jack reached inside his coat and pulled out a cumbersome looking portable phone.
“What the hell?” Rick stared down at the phone Jack just handed him. “Where did you get this?”
“I still have a few friends. It’s a secure satellite phone. We canna have y’ reporting over the radio or a cell phone can we? The t
argets might hear y’. Y’ call me on this phone when y’ get up there, let me know what’s going on. Y’ have a camera don’t y’? And son, be careful.”
Chapter 54
Ottawa, Canada
“With this statement, we are declaring a right and just war, a holy Jihad, against the unbelieving state of Canada. . .” The video concluded and the group sat frozen in the dark.
Pierre Chasson was stunned. There wasn’t a sound from the other eight people in the room.
“Someone get the lights.” Chasson, Canada’s Deputy Minister of Defense, shook his head and regained his senses. “Where did you get this?”
A short bald-headed man with horn rim glasses flipped on the lights revealing a large conference room with a polished oak table and leather-covered chairs. The occupants were all middle-aged males in business suits or uniforms with the exception of a petite thirty-something redheaded woman.
The bald man pushed a button on the control panel built into the table and the screen at the end of the room retracted into the ceiling. Another button and the light from the projector hanging from the ceiling shut off. A third button opened the blinds on the windows, revealing downtown Ottawa twenty stories below them.
For a long moment the only sound in the room was the hum and ticking as the projector cooled down.
“CBC.” Jean Broussard, the Assistant Director of Operations for CSIS, finally got her voice back. “They’re planning on broadcasting it on the five o’clock news, but thought that we should see it first. To prepare a response.”
Response hell! “I want those bastards.” Chasson felt fire rising in his face. “They’ve declared war on us.” His voice cracked slightly. “We have to find them. Stop them before they kill again. What do we know about them?”
“Almost nothing.” Jean, the petite redhead, referred to a clip board in her lap. “We’re not sure where this was filmed. It could be anywhere in the country. It could be from outside the country for that matter. It looks real enough. I’ve sent a copy along to our forensic lab for analysis.”
The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1) Page 27