Dead Water

by Russ Snyder

"Turn around." Starr immediately secured him, as well.

  Christman, still on the Coast Guard boat, spotted another one headed toward him. He picked up his binoculars and was able to clearly make out yet another CG vessel.

  "Starr," he said over the comm set they were all wearing. "We've got company---more Coast Guard guys."

  "Roger," he replied to J. C. Addressing Phillips, he instructed, "Hold up at the ready." She placed the clipboard aside and unslung her AR, holding it across her chest, finger on the trigger. She didn't bother to look at him. Starr proceeded outside and walked to the rail as the second vessel was coming up to Christman. This boat contained two seamen, an obvious commanding officer, and two men dressed in civilian clothing, which Christman thought odd.

  The commanding officer on board yelled over to Christman, "Surprised to see you! This boat is on our list to check!"

  Thinking fast, Christman responded, "We have a computer guru with us. Someone wants this boat's computers checked. We just got word about three hours ago. Guess the paperwork didn't catch up with you yet."

  "My, what a surprise," the second boat's commander joked. "Well, no sense in both of us here, so have fun; we'll be on our way to the next one." Looking up at the rail, he saw Starr and saluted, receiving one in return. The second vessel turned and headed away with the two civilians looking hard at him.

  "Good answer, J. C.," Starr said, and he returned to the salon. "We're all set; keep going," he instructed Phillips.

  "Starr, who do you think the two guys in street clothes were?" asked J. C.

  Phillips cut in. "I can answer that. The feds are going to have their people on board to try to find something that the Coast Guard guys might have overlooked the first time. No doubt that's who they were."

  "Guess that explains why they were staring daggers at me as they left," Christman retorted.

  "J. C., keep a sharp eye out for them. If they return, we don't want to be surprised," instructed Starr.

  "Copy that."

  Styles was following the first officer down to the engine room. He was impressed with the cleanliness of the yacht. There did not appear to be a spot anywhere on anything. The bright work of chrome and brass absolutely shimmered. He was led down some stairs and to a large metal door.

  "In there," pointed the first officer.

  "After you," instructed Styles.

  With a shrug, the man opened the door and stepped inside. There was no obvious response to his entrance.

  "Now down on the floor, face-first, legs spread, and interlock your fingers behind your head," commanded Styles.

  The man was reluctant to do so.

  Styles, who had not yet entered the room, stated calmly, "I have no problem whatsoever shooting you. Down on the floor."

  The first officer complied quickly.

  Styles quickly stood over the man and secured him with plastic wire ties, binding his arms and feet. He stuffed a rag in his mouth to silence him.

  Styles moved quickly throughout the entire engine compartment. Checking everywhere, Roberto was not to be found. Then a thought hit him, hard.

  Over their earbuds, Styles warned, "Starr, nobody's home. I think he might be headed for the fuel tanks. Put Phillips on guard, and you start making your way downstairs. The tanks should be on the lowest level, amidships or slightly rearward. If you spot him, unless he's actively trying to blow us up, let me know where he is. If you have to shoot, try not to kill him, and don't hit the damn tanks."

  "Gotcha."

  Styles moved as quickly as he dared to where he thought the tanks would be without putting himself at risk. There was no doubt in his mind that the man he sought was none other than Nazir al-Hadid, who would be more than willing to blow himself and everyone else up. He also knew he probably had very little time. Up ahead, he saw a trapdoor. That should be it.

  "Starr, there's a trapdoor in a hallway, probably directly below you, two flights down. I'm going in." Styles had developed a knack for walking in virtual silence, which he employed now. Reaching the entrance in the floor, he put his ear to the steel floor and could make out noises below him. In a low voice, he told Starr, "I'm leaving my AR on the floor. Make sure it's secure." He had his Beretta in one hand as he slowly opened the door in the floor. No response. He looked inside and did not see anyone within a fifteen-foot circle. There were two large metal cabinets just to his right with a four-foot space between them, both full of gauges. In one motion, he dropped through the opening to the floor seven feet below and then tucked and rolled between the two cabinets.

  Immediately, two shots rang out at him, each missing by more than three feet. Stupid, now I know where you are. Styles holstered his Beretta and retrieved two of his throwing knives. Like a snake, he inched along the floor until he could see a shadow moving from light that was thrown by the fluorescent fixtures above. Another shot rang out, directed toward the place that Styles no longer occupied. He guessed he was about twelve feet from his quarry. In one motion, Styles stood and cocked his throwing arm. A single glance told him that Nazir al-Hadid was just finishing affixing a bomb to the fuel tanks. A flash split the air and impaled al-Hadid in the right shoulder, causing him to scream. A second followed, hitting him just above the left elbow, and he collapsed onto the corrugated steel floor. The wounds were not life threatening, but certainly disabling. Looking around cautiously as he approached al-Hadid, he was certain that only the two of them were in the room. The fuel tanks were enormous. He couldn't even begin to guess their capacity. Standing over al-Hadid, he kicked the Glock nine-millimeter pistol away that had been dropped.

  "Unlike you, I don't want to blow us up." He reached down and yanked both knives out of his victim. Wiping the blood on al-Hadid's shirt, he told Starr, "Al-Hadid is secure." He holstered his knives.

  Through his pain, sheer rage glowered from Nazir al-Hadid's eyes. "How do you know my name?" he snarled before realizing the mistake of admission.

  Styles squatted down beside him. "Good. You like to talk. You'll talk more."

  "I will tell you nothing."

  "You won't have a choice," growled Styles.

  Styles turned him over and thoroughly checked him for weapons. Finding none, he secured both his arms and legs with wire ties. He then hoisted him over his shoulder and managed to get him up out of the engine bay and into the corridor. He started making his way back, found a stateroom close to the main salon, and dumped al-Hadid onto the bed. He double-checked the ties and then went to rejoin his group.

  "The first officer is secure in the engine room. Al-Hadid is wounded and secure in a stateroom just down the hall."

  "What about the others?" asked Starr.

  "I think it's safe to assume the entire crew is part of the terrorist plot, but I'm not sure about the passengers."

  "I've been running the passports, and by all accounts, the wedding party is just that. I think they're being used as a cover," offered Phillips.

  "So what do we do with them? They've seen us," stated Christman.

  "No innocents; that's what he said. We can't ignore that!" exclaimed Starr.

  "I agree," stated Phillips.

  "Take them back to their staterooms, be damn sure they are secure, and we'll leave the rest of the crew here," Styles directed.

  As Phillips and Christman led the wedding party away, Starr and Styles bound the crew members with the plastic wire ties and then went and retrieved the first officer.

  Styles walked back in with the first officer slung over his shoulder just as Phillips and J. C. returned. "Those people all set?"

  "Yeah, they're not going anywhere," Phillips asserted emphatically.

  Styles turned and started to leave.

  "Where are you going?" Starr asked.

  "To find an empty state room or something. Phillips, you're with me." The second door on the left was exactly what Styles was looking
for, a small conference room. He tossed al-Hadid into a blue overstuffed leather lounger. "Give him something for the pain."

  Looking a little confused, Phillips went to her small leather case and retrieved a syringe and then drew morphine into it from a small vial. Finding a vein in al-Hadid's right forearm, she injected the painkiller. Almost immediately, the man appeared more comfortable.

  Styles peered hard into al-Hadid's eyes. "I gave you that to show you that if you answer my questions, this will go well for you. If you don't answer, it won't."

  "I have nothing to say."

  "Load that thing up with your special sauce," addressing Phillips.

  Picking up another vial, she extracted the liquid it contained into the syringe. She nodded.

  "Give it to him."

  Finding the same vein, she injected approximately one-third of the contents into al-Hadid. His eyes immediately started to glaze over slightly.

  "What is your name?" Styles demanded.

  "I tell you nothing."

  Styles nodded at Phillips, who injected half the remaining serum into al-Hadid.

  They watched as his head started to fall to his chest. Styles grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head upright.

  "What is your name?"

  "A ... a ... Hadeddd ..."

  "He's under pretty far," Phillips offered.

  "Who ordered the death of the American president?"

  "All of us," al-Hadid stammered, managing a smirk, and then he reeled as Styles slapped him hard across his face. Styles knew that the blow wouldn't hurt due to the morphine; it was the shock value he wanted. Al-Hadid continued, "I shot down."

  "Who planned it? Give me a name."

  Al-Hadid was struggling valiantly against the drugs but was losing the battle. "I do not know."

  Styles nodded again, but Phillips cautioned him.

  "He's pretty close to the limit now."

  "Take it to the limit---past if need be. We need answers."

  Phillips injected the remaining portion in the syringe into al-Hadid. His eyes now were closed. Styles slapped him hard across his cheeks three times, causing his eyes to open slightly.

  "Who planned the assassination of the American president?" Styles snarled at him.

  "Al ... Ali ... Ryki Ali ... and his brother." With that, his head collapsed on his chest. He jerked violently twice and died.

  Over their earpieces, Starr informed them that they had company.

  "Looks like the same bunch."

  Looking at Phillips, Styles said, "We don't have much time. Find the computers and do whatever you do. We need the intel. Don't stop no matter what you hear." With that, he was running back toward Starr.

  "Where's Phillips?" Starr asked.

  "Getting the intel off their computers. We need to buy her time."

  "What's the plan?"

  "Wing it, what else? J. C., you copy that?"

  "Copy that. What do you want from me?"

  "Stand ready and look mad."

  38

  At six in the morning in the Oval Office, President Lamar was having a meeting with only three of his directors; Elliott Ragar of the NSA, Charles Rockford of Homeland Security, and Matt Sanderson of the FBI were in attendance.

  "Gentlemen, where do we stand with regard to President Williams?"

  Sanderson answered, "Sir, we have fifteen yachts under observance where the recovered scuba diver could have retreated to. They are being watched 24-7. The Coast Guard is going to board them again to double-check all their paperwork. Four of them are foreign registry. They'll be gone over with an even finer-tooth comb. We are confident we will find something linking one of them to the assassination."

  President Lamar did not hide his contempt. "So, Matt, you're telling me that you think that a group capable of killing the president of the United States is going to leave something on board their boat connecting them to that? I find that highly implausible."

  Ragar spoke up. "Sir, sometimes it's the smallest item that may be overlooked. When the vessels are boarded, we will have at least two of our people along, people who are extremely experienced in picking up on information that the Coast Guard may not spot."

  "And that information might be ...?"

  "We won't know until we find it, sir."

  "I honestly wish I could share your faith. When I think about how they were able to bring three helicopters down with such ease, it sends ice-cold shivers up and down my spine. My God, man, their plan was brilliant. I'm only surprised it hasn't happened sooner. I'm having my secret service detail work out different travel scenarios for me. I have no wish to have a missile explode in my face."

  "Yes, sir," all three echoed.

  "When will you start these Coast Guard inspections?"

  "We are assembling the secondary teams now as a follow-up to the primary inspections," answered Rockford. "We are bringing in personnel from all three of our agencies to assist in the operation. We also have the Coast Guard checking any yachts capable of long-range cruises within a two-hundred-mile radius."

  "Let me know what you find, and gentleman, find something!"

  "We will, sir. You can count on it."

  The president gave a halfhearted nod and dismissed the three with a wave of his hand. The door had no more closed when a second one opened, and Irving Vickers entered.

  "What do you think, Irving?"

  "The plan seems sound, sir. I also agree with your assessment that I doubt anything will be found linking a group to this horrific act."

  "I know that those three are doing everything that they can, but I can't help but worry it's simply not enough."

  CIA agent Martin Larrow had stopped by the hospital to check in on Robert Randall, who was lying in a hospital bed. He was awake, semialert, and sedated, but inside, he was in a rage. He could not get the face of the man who had put him where he was out of his mind. With great effort, he could speak slowly between his teeth, a fact that bothered him even more. The overall team leader, Marty Larrow, was attempting to question him.

  "I'm not going to waste time asking you how you are. I can see that for myself. I want to know if you can give a description of the man who attacked you. One of your group got a glimpse of him but because of face paint could only give a very general description. Can you do any better?"

  Randall only grunted in rage.

  "Look, right now we've actually got more important items to deal with besides how pissed off you are. Look at it this way. If you can help ID this guy, you're closer to getting back at him." Larrow was trying to use Randall's arrogance to his advantage.

  Randall glared fire at Larrow before responding painfully, "Trained. Good. Military or better. Scar on left side of face. Hard to see. Real fast. Accurate."

  "That's good. Anything else you can think of?"

  "Both hands."

  "You mean he was ambidextrous?"

  Randall nodded slightly. "When do I get out?"

  "Not for a while. We'll fly you back home when you can travel. Probably be at least six more weeks."

  Randall only stared daggers at him.

  "Sorry, but it's the doctor's call. I'll check on you again."

  "Don't bother."

  "Your choice," Larrow replied as he got up to leave.

  "Yes," Randall said as loud as possible.

  Larrow only nodded and left. Walking down the hall toward the parking lot, he called Backersley.

  "Sir, I just spoke with Randall. The only information he could provide was the guy was six feet tall, about two hundred pounds, and has a scar on the left side of his face. He had a tough time talking. He did mention that possibly the guy was top military trained."

  "Not much more to go on. I'll start running a facial against anyone who might fill the bill," he responded.

  "I'm on my way
back to Langley."

  "Report to me as soon as you get here."

  "Absolutely."

  After the conversation with Larrow, Backersley called Myra Banks.

  "Where do we stand?"

  "We're about 80 percent. The new servers are up; now it's a matter of loading programs and intel. I'm going back to my office and sleep. Bernie, I don't care if the damned world comes to an end, do not wake me up." She was still incredibly angry with him.

  "Thanks, Myra. I won't." He wasn't quite sure what to do, which was rare. He knew he could use some help, but his options were limited. Since he was in the middle of something he'd been ordered out of, he had to do everything on the sly. He finally decided to try to utilize his unknown cyber contact. Trying to find info on an unknown operative with highest skill in hand-to-hand combat. Scar on side of face. Six feet tall, two hundred pounds. Probably military. Any help appreciated.

  Just under an hour later, he received an answer. Will take time.

  Despite everything in the world that the CIA was involved with, at that particular moment, Bernard Backersley felt like he was standing still.

  Aboard the second Coast Guard boat that had approached the Oceaneer, two members from the FBI were huddled together. Albert Haines had been specifically assigned to head up a six-man team to assist the Coast Guard in the search for any clues regarding the assassination of President Robert Williams. He held a PhD in criminal psychology and was blessed with a near photographic memory. He had personally chosen the team and had assigned Del Forbanks as his partner.

  Forbanks excelled in cyberwarfare, and Haines thought it prudent to have a computer expert as half of each team.

  "Anything about that team we just ran across bother you?" Haines asked Forbanks.

  "Nothing stood out. Why? Did you pick up on something?"

  "The clothes the guy in the boat was wearing. It wasn't the latest CG issue."

  "Do you think that is pertinent? Maybe the guy just has old stuff left. The Guard is a little more relaxed in their dress code."

  "True. It just stood out, and that's what we are here to find, anything that might stand out."