Sea Of Terror (2010)

by Stephen - Deep Black 08 Coonts

  "My God," Barton said. "Are you saying what I think you're--"

  "A Los Angeles-class submarine is shadowing those two hijacked vessels," Bing said. "The Newport News, part of the Eisenhower's strike group. If necessary, she will be given orders to destroy both ships."

  "There must be another way," Admiral Prendergast said. "We can't kill over three thousand civilians!"

  "If they've breached those MOX containers," Elton added, "it could also mean an unprecedented ecological disaster. All of that radioactive debris adrift in the Gulf Stream? It could poison the North Atlantic ... contaminate the entire Atlantic coast of Europe, at the very least."

  "All of which the terrorists are probably counting on," Rubens pointed out. "My guess, ladies and gentlemen, is that that's exactly what Khalid and his people intend ... to force us to destroy those ships ourselves in order to protect our cities. Remember the nine-eleven conspiracy nonsense?"

  They did. In the aftermath of the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, conspiracy theories had begun floating about on the Internet to the effect that Flight 93 had been shot down by U. S. military aircraft, that the WTC attacks had been staged by the U. S. government, even that what had crashed into the Pentagon hadn't been a hijacked airliner at all but a missile launched by an American combat plane. The possible motives for such a conspiracy were fuzzy, of course, but generally had to do with creating an excuse to invade the Middle East in order to secure and control the sources of Arab oil.

  So far as Rubens was concerned, the people spreading those conspiracy theories on the Internet and even in video documentaries were little better than traitors, dishonoring the memories of the thousands of Americans who'd died in those attacks and the brave Americans who'd gone on to take the war to the enemy. By blaming the recent and unpopular Bush Administration with ignorance, distortions, and outright lies, they'd given aid and comfort to the real enemy, apparently for nothing better than political point-making.

  It was still a free country, and free speech was still the law of the land, but that kind of domestic political propaganda was damnably close to shouting, "Fire!" in a crowded theater. Oliver Wendell Holmes would not have been amused.

  "You're saying we're playing into Khalid's hands," Bing said.

  "As I said, Dr. Bing, they've been keeping just ahead of us right along, ever since before the crisis started. I think they're using misdirection now in order to delay, that they have no intention of taking the money even if we give in. They want to offer us a choice of two and only two options--they sail into New York Harbor and set off a dirty bomb that will kill thousands of people and contaminate the entire city, or they force us to sink those ships ourselves, be seen by the world killing three thousand civilians, and possibly contaminating the European shoreline, everything from Ireland to Spain and Portugal."

  "So what are you suggesting, Mr. Rubens?" Prendergast asked. "Your military insertion option?"

  "I would suggest, first, that you negotiate. Tell them that we will give them the money and the prisoners. See if they'll halt those ships mid-ocean if we make that promise. If they do, then I'm wrong. We can continue to negotiate ... or launch a military option, whatever you and the President think best."

  "That seems reasonable," General Barton said.

  "With an important cavealf," Rubens said. "They could still blow those ships up out there even while we're in the middle of negotiating with them, and claim we did it. There would be plenty of people who would believe them. And radioactive contamination of western Europe and the poisoning of fish throughout the North Atlantic would still kill thousands, and result in tens of billions of dollars of damage. It would give al-Qaeda the propaganda victory it's looking for.

  "So while we talk, I do still think we need to get a team on board those ships."

  "To launch an assault?" Bing asked. "Or for reconnaissance?"

  "For reconnaissance first," Rubens said. "We have to have decent intel. How many terrorists are there? Where are they? What is the situation of the hostages, and where are they? Are there explosives in place? We need to know."

  "Your last report said that you were again in contact with one of your agents on board," Wehrum said.

  "Carrousel, yes," Rubens said. "She sent a message through confirming that she's okay, and suggesting some electronic options we might be able to take."

  "Then she can get us the intel we need," Barton said.

  "No, unfortunately. She can't. We need to see places that passengers aren't allowed to go. The bridge. The cargo hold. She would be picked up by the ship's sensors, and an alarm would sound in Security.

  "What we have in mind is to put two teams on board, one on each ship. They could check areas closed to passengers, and give us a picture of just where the bad guys are. They would then be in position when a full-scale assault is launched. Our working plan so far is to have them take down terrorist leaders before they can order the detonation of any explosives in the ships' holds. An alternate possibility is to send the recon teams to those holds and have them disarm any explosives before the actual assault begins."

  "And you think this operation could be kept low-key?" Bing asked him. "The President still wants to downplay any American involvement."

  Politics again. "Yes, Dr. Bing," Rubens replied. "In fact, what we would recommend is that the SAS get another crack at those ships. As you said the other day, it's their ship, their responsibility. And a success here would go a long way to repairing their public image. And it would keep our people out of the public eye."

  "I'm not so sure this is a good idea," Wehrum said, looking at Bing. "If the assault force screws up, the ships could be destroyed anyway. And it would look like it was our fault."

  "Doing nothing guarantees failure," Rubens pointed out.

  "I'll take this up with the President," Bing said. "No promises ... but have your Black Cat unit positioned and ready to go. How long will it take to get them in position?"

  "They're ready now," Rubens said. When Bing raised her eyebrows at that, he grinned. "It seemed a worthwhile precaution to put our team in place for an op, just in case. They're on board the Eisenhower now. We also have a SEAL team on the USS Ohio, shadowing the hijacked ships."

  "We'll still need Presidential approval," she said.

  "Of course," Rubens said. "There's one thing more, though."

  "What is it?"

  "Met reports from that part of the ocean are not encouraging right now. The wind is up to ten knots with gusts at fifteen, the sea state is at three, and there's a storm front moving down on those ships from the north. Weather conditions are expected to deteriorate dramatically over the next ten to twelve hours."

  "What does that mean?"

  "That we are not going to be able to launch a parachute insertion onto those ships with winds over about ten to twelve knots. And SEALs on board an ASDS trying to come alongside will not be able to board them if the seas are higher than about sea state three to four. We need to go now, within the next few hours ... or we'll need to wait until the storm passes."

  "Tell your team to stand ready," Bing said, standing suddenly. "I'll get back to you with the President's decision."

  "At last report, the Atlantis Queen was one hundred and eleven miles southeast of Mistaken Point, Newfoundland," Rubens said. "That's a bit over five hundred miles from New York. We don't have much time."

  The meeting was over.

  Bridge, Atlantis Queen 45deg 18' N, 52deg 11'W Wednesday, 1603 hours GMT

  "I need to know I can still trust you," Khalid said.

  "I told you ... I didn't tell them anything! They ... they grabbed me and Rawasdeh so quickly, and then Rawasdeh was knocked down the stairs. I didn't have a gun--"

  "Yes, yes, we have been over all of that," Khalid said, placing a fatherly hand on the man's shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."

  Ghailiani's right arm was in a sling, heavily bandaged, and he had another bandage wrapped around his torso beneath his
open Ship's Security shirt. The ship's doctor had patched him up after Aziz and Nehim had shot him in the woman's stateroom.

  It would, Khalid thought, be safest to shoot GhaUiani right now. The problem was that Khalid's personnel assets were stretched to the limit right now. He needed technical people--people who knew computers--in the IT department and in the ship's Security Office.

  Things had been tight before with twenty-four Brigade fighters on board each of the two captured vessels, a total of forty-eight. Now Rawasdeh was dead. So was Wahidi, transferred to the Sandpiper on Saturday to work with Bekkali and Moritomi in the special technical unit.

  Wahidi's death had been .. . horrible, a three-day agony of vomiting and diarrhea as the radiation poisoning he'd received had eaten away his guts. Bekkali was dead as well, the same way, and two other fighters soon would be. The KKD atomic expert, Moritomi, had shot himself when the first radiation poisoning symptoms had set in hours after the transfer of nuclear material to the Atlantis Queen. And two more men had died in the Sandpiper's stern gun position, when the British helicopter had blasted it with a wire-guided missile.

  Eight dead so far. Counting himself, then, there were twenty-nine Brigade fighters remaining on board the Atlantis Queen, eighteen on the Pacific Sandpiper. Khalid had expected to take losses, of course; the sacrifice of the special technical unit had been expected, a part of the operational plan.

  But Khalid had just five men on board the Atlantis Queen with the training and experience to operate both the ship's computers and the security monitors--and that number included himself. They were working now in staggered eighteen-hour shifts, with one man catching a few hours' sleep at a time. He needed Ghailiani to help fill in, because he'd been trained in the Atlantis Queen's security systems. With some minor changes to the programming of the computer running the ship's security section, Khalid would need fewer men as guards, would be able to control all of the thousands of people on board this ship watching through cameras and the ship's sensors, instead of with armed men standing at specific points like the fantail, the Promenade Deck, and up on Deck Eleven.

  With the repulse of the helicopter strike, Khalid was sure that they would have at least a day or two before another attempt was made. According to the colored symbols on the electronic chart table, the enemy ships were keeping well back, none closer than about 250 kilometers.

  His big concern now was controlling the ship's thirty-three hundred passengers and crew.

  Ghailiani trembled under Khalid's hand.

  "Have you seen your e-mail yet today?" Khalid asked, dropping his hand.

  The man, his eyes screwed tightly shut, managed a jerky nod.

  "Then you know your wife and daughter remain safe. Our original bargain still stands. You help us to the full extent to which you are capable. And your wife and daughter will not be harmed."

  "I will do anything you command, Amir. Anything."

  "I know you will. And soon this mission will be over, and you will rejoin your family as a very wealthy man. For now, though, I need your help in security. I know this ship has sensors to monitor when people have wandered into areas where they should not go, yes?"

  Ghailiani nodded again.

  "Good. And I would like you to . . . extend the list of such places, so that we can know immediately when one of the free passengers wanders into a stairwell, say, or the deck outside."

  "I can do that, Amir."

  "Good. Do it, then."

  A sudden blast of wind struck the bridge windows as Ghailiani departed, followed by a rattle of rain. The weather was turning ugly, the sky turbulent and overcast.

  Good. That meant even less likelihood of an enemy attack.

  High up next to the ceiling of the ship's bridge, a TV monitor was displaying CNN, via a satellite feed. A woman was talking earnestly into the camera, telling of a rumored deal being struck between the U. S. government and the Atlantis Queen hijackers.

  Khalid smiled.

  The Americans had fallen all over themselves in transmitting a radio message accepting the IJI Brigade's terms. The promise of $2 billion and the release of several hundred Islamic prisoners ... that in itself was a sweet victory, almost victory enough to leave Yusef Khalid believing in a beneficent and all-powerful Allah.

  Almost. This victory had been won with daring, imagination, sacrifice, and a great deal of money from al-Qaeda's financial backers in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and elsewhere. It wasn't necessary to drag God into the equation.

  Still, knowing that the Americans had capitulated filled Khalid with a surging sense of power, of purpose. A handful of fighters willing to sacrifice themselves in the name of Allah had brought the world's so-called sole superpower to its knees.

  It was a shame, really, that he wouldn't be accepting the American offer. He'd given orders to maintain radio silence, to refuse to respond to any signal from the Americans or the British.

  Later, when they were closer to New York City, he would begin to negotiate, but only to drag things out and give them the opportunity to take these vessels and their radioactive cargos all the way into the port and cram them up America's ass.

  Khalid wasn't interested in money or in freed prisoners.

  He was interested solely in revenge.

  Hangar Deck, USS Eisenhower 43deg 54' N, 54deg 18' W Wednesday, 1625 hours GMT

  "Another delay?" Charlie Dean asked.

  "I'm afraid so," Rubens' voice replied in his head, speaking over his communications implants. "But this time it's the weather."

  Around him stretched the gray recesses of the Eisenhower's hangar deck, a high-ceilinged cavern filled with the crouching forms of aircraft, wings folded, quiescent. The two Black Cat assault teams crouched nearby in front of Lieutenant Richard Taylor, who was drawing with a black marker on a large whiteboard with side-by-side deck schematics of the two ships printed on it.

  "Conditions are still decent here," Dean said. He'd just come down from the ship's Met Office.

  "But your target is sailing through a squall line right now. They're telling us to expect high winds and unfavorable sea states along the Queen's course for the next twelve hours at least."

  And by the time the bad weather had passed, dawn would be approaching. The insertion had to take place at night to have any chance at all of success.

  "So we're looking going in at sometime tomorrow night," Dean said.

  "Use the time to study those deck plans and photos," Rubens told him. "And we'll be developing our contact with Carrousel."

  "Tell her to keep her head down," Dean said.

  "Rubens out."

  Bridge, Atlantis Queen 44deg 49' N, 54deg 10' W

  Wednesday, 2114 hours GMT + 4

  "What the hell is that noise?" Khalid demanded.

  Phillips, the ship's captain, stood before him between two armed men. "What noise would that be?"

  "You can't have not heard it."

  Khalid had ordered Phillips brought to the bridge. Much of the time, he and the other bridge officers were kept confined in a watch room down the passageway behind the bridge. One or another of them could be brought to the bridge any time there was a need for their advice. Khalid didn't like the look in Phillips' eyes, however, and since he and a few trusted Brigade soldiers could handle the ship's wheel, watch the compass, and keep an eye on the electronic chart table and radar, there was no need for the regular ship's officers on the bridge at all.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Phillips replied.

  As if on cue, then, a long, low, grinding rumble sounded, transmitted through the steel deck of the bridge. The ship itself gave a lurching shudder.

  "That noise," Khalid growled. "Will you tell me what it is, or shall I put several of your passengers overboard?"

  The threat seemed to batter down Phillips' defenses. "The sea is getting rougher," he said. "The two ships, this one and the Sandpiper, are of different lengths, and different drafts, so they ride the waves differently from one another."
<
br />   Khalid walked to the port bridge wing and looked aft. It was dark and raining, but in the haze of glowing mist illuminated by the Pacific Sandpiper's deck lights, he could see the smaller ship grinding unevenly against the Adantis Queen's side.

  "Are we in danger?"

  "I don't know. It's hard to tell. If the sea gets any rougher, the Sandpiper could stove us in, I suppose."

  "What can we do about it?"

  Phillips gave a halfhearted shrug. "You could bring both ships about into the wind," he said. "Cut our speed until we're just barely making way, and ride out the storm."

  "We do not need the delay," Khalid said. "We have a schedule to keep." He gestured toward the officer. "Take him back to his quarters."

  As Phillips was led away, Khalid called the radio watch. "Sadeeq! Raise the Pacific Sandpiper"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Tell them we are going to separate the ships. Our time together is over."

  The two would proceed to their respective targets separately from here on out.

  Chapter 23

  Stateroom 4005, Atlantis Queen North Atlantic Ocean 42deg 58' N, 61deg 54' W Thursday, 1320 hours EST

  "who do you work for?" jerry Esterhausen asked. "SAS? The American Delta Force? I know! The CIA!"

  "Believe it or not, I'm a relatively low-level clerk," Carolyn Howorth told him. If he wanted to jump to the conclusion that she was CIA, that was fine with her. "I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."

  "Or the right place, right time," he said with feeling. They were seated at the desk in Esterhausen's stateroom. Late last night, he'd brought her down here, and she'd slept here. Only slept; Esterhausen had gallantly let her have the queen-sized bed while he took the double-wide love-seat sofa. It was, Howorth was forced to admit, infinitely better than blankets and life jackets in a lifeboat outside.

  She'd been up early, however, sending more reports back to GCHQ and NSA Headquarters and also trying to raise Mohamed Ghailiani.