Joint Task Force #2: America

by David E. Meadows

  “I hope they made it.”

  “We always hope they made it, whenever a plane crashes, even when we’re standing on the deck of a carrier and see the aircraft disappear beneath the bow. You always hope they survive even when you know there is little to no hope. It’s hard to accept mortality, especially your own. I think I was in my mid-forties when . . .”

  Tucker nodded. The forlorn voice of the Commodore told more than his words. The man was speaking from experience; what experience, Tucker wondered. No one completes a full career in the military without encountering death at least once. Tucker could tell the older mustang officer would do more than what was expected if it meant saving sailors. There is a phenomenon in the Navy where you transition from being a member of the Navy to becoming part of it. No one could really tell you how long you had to serve in the Navy for that subtle transition to occur, or even how to recognize it, but standing here beside him was one of those who considered the Navy his. Tucker didn’t. For him, he worked for the Navy—a Navy he truly enjoyed. The Commodore mentioned Sam, disrupting Tucker’s thoughts, bringing awareness back to the senior officer who stood beside him.

  “Sorry, sir. What was that?”

  “I said, I know this is personal and we’ve discussed it. The crew would have to be blind not to see that you and Lieutenant Commander Bradley have a very serious relationship.” Commodore West waved his hand, motioning Tucker to silence. “But for good order and discipline, I would appreciate if you two could dash some cold water on those raging hormones and act like officers when you’re around each other.”

  Tucker didn’t reply right away. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m telling you this off the record, Commander Raleigh, because you’re both attached to my command right now. It’s a small command. You and her keep this hanky-panky going on between these government walls, I’m going to be forced to take action. I would just as soon avoid emotional shit like that. Get my drift, Commander?” West smiled for a brief second.

  “Yes, sir. We do have a close relationship, Commodore, and we both know what we can and can’t do within these government walls,” Tucker replied, miffed at the Commodore addressing him as if he was some school kid. Who in the hell was this man to be asking him about his personal relationship? Then, just as suddenly, Tucker calmed as he realized that West had already answered the question. West was Navy. Through and through, the old mustang was Navy. Anyone or anything that messed with West’s Navy or even hinted at a degree of disgrace on it would be forever the man’s enemy. Tucker wouldn’t be surprised if the Commodore pulled his sword and tried to run through anyone besmirching the Navy. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Glad you understand, Commander.”

  “Sir, I better understand your position than mine.”

  Commodore West, holding the message board under this arm, walked to the window overlooking the pier. “You see those men out there, Commander? Every day we ask more and more of them. We tax their energy, emotional well-being, and right to a family life. In return for this punishment and the right to live just above the poverty line, we give them the honor of serving their country. As long as we call ourselves Navy officers, we must never forget that they are the reason we lead, for without them, we would cease to be the most powerful Navy this world has ever seen.”

  Tucker nodded silently. The man was right. Every now and again, you needed a dose of patriotism and reality to steer you back on course and remind you of the reason you do what you do. He took another drink of the bitter coffee.

  “Now, back to you, young man. It’s obvious you and this young lady are either in love or falling in love or—pardon my words, Commander Tucker, I don’t mean to be out of line—found the greatest sex you two have ever found.”

  Tucker nearly spit the coffee out, forced himself to swallow it instead, with about half going down the wrong way. Tucker started coughing, spilling coffee as he put the cup down. He bent over, trying to clear the liquid from his windpipe. The Commodore hit him a couple of times on the back.

  “Never knew I could surprise a Navy SEAL like that.”

  “Sorry, sir, wasn’t expecting the question.”

  “That’s okay, son. Wasn’t expecting to get an answer. Just being a nosey old codger now—a dirty one at that. Seems like only yesterday I was meeting my wife the same way, except it wasn’t on active duty. She was a reserve officer who came to visit a friend of hers. We were introduced, I was smitten, and two years later, we were married.” Commodore West leaned forward against the bulkhead, straining to see the piers beneath the tower. Then he leaned back. “I truly believe we’re put here on earth as a test by some Supreme Being with a misguided sense of humor. Every challenge we encounter is part of that test, including marriage. Rennie and I had a great thirty years. I still miss her.”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Commander Bradley and I have only known each other about four months. I was wounded—”

  “I know, Commander. I read the report when they sent you down here. You’re the one reason we thought this Abu Alhaul would try for Norfolk. Naval Intelligence believed this new terrorist leader would forego irrational terrorist acts for the rational opportunity of revenge. You.”

  “Yes, sir. I have always enjoyed being bait.”

  “Looks as if this time you weren’t.”

  The radio crackled from the front of the tower, followed by a broadcast. “Hampton Roads Maritime, this is Freighter Maru Tania. We are ten miles from mouth of channel. Should we try to enter as scheduled?”

  “Maru Tania, Hampton Roads; Request you remain out to sea for time being. Change to weather channel and get latest update. Weather is expected to deteriorate in next twelve to twenty-four hours. Try again this afternoon if you see the winds and seas decrease. Right now, we intend to reopen the port tomorrow morning.”

  “Roger, out.”

  “Bridge to bridge,” Commodore West said, nodding at the radio. “We keep it tuned to channel sixteen. It lets us keep track of the ships going in and out, plus it’s the primary warning system for the Department of Homeland Security in the event we need to seal the East Coast.”

  “Ever had to do that?”

  “You mean seal the East Coast?” The Commodore asked and then continued without waiting for an answer. “This has been the first time we tried it, and one of the lessons we’ve learned is that Mother Nature doesn’t always cooperate. Of course, you could say Mother Nature closed the East Coast ports for us.”

  Commodore West glanced at the clock over the forward bulkhead of the tower. “Zero five hundred, Commander. We’ve been here an hour shooting the bull, and while you haven’t asked for my advice, I want you to know that failure to ask has never stopped me from giving it.” He reached up and touched him on the shoulder. “Take your time.”

  “Take my time?”

  He removed his hand and looked down at the piers before glancing up at the clouds. “Another overcast day. You know, life can be like that if we make the wrong decision—a series of overcast days.” He turned and walked by Tucker. “Got to go down and tell the watch to put on some fresh coffee. Five-thirty is when I have my first cup before my oatmeal at six followed by man’s greatest friend to the prostate—aspirin.” He turned as he reached the staircase leading down. “Commander, go get some sleep, and remember, if and when you ever get married, always use those most important words to a wife’s ear.”

  “You mean, ‘I love you?’ ” Tucker asked with a chuckle.

  “No, I mean, ‘yes, dear.’ ‘I love you’ is important, and they’ll expect it, but ‘yes, dear’ can make married life a lot more peaceful.” With that, the old mustang disappeared down the stairs.

  More calls from merchant vessels trying to enter and leave Hampton Roads grew on the bridge-to-bridge radio as the maritime day emerged into rough weather in historic Tidewater, Virginia.

  “WHAT IS THIS?” SCREAMED TAMURSHEKI.

  He drew back and slapped Ibrahim again. The blow caused the
doctor to take a couple of steps back. Qasim, the huge Shiite from Iraq, stuck his foot out, tripping Ibrahim and causing the doctor to fall onto the deck of the wardroom.

  Tamursheki reached down and grabbed the collars of Ibrahim’s smock.

  “Look around your little hospital here,” he said, his voice angry and low. “Why are my men laying about the place, moaning; and what are these things popping up on their bodies? And, on my body?” He threw the smaller man across the compartment. Ibrahim hit against one of the two medical tables, sending medical instruments flying off the table and onto the floor. The sound of the metal instruments bouncing off the metal decks punctuated Ibrahim’s cry of pain. The doctor raised his hand, blood welling from a sliced palm where a scalpel had cut him.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that little nick, Doctor Ibrahim. You should worry about the one along your neck if you don’t get these men well before we reach our target today,” Tamursheki threatened, his voice trembling.

  Tamursheki jerked Ibrahim up, holding him by the collars of the smock. He shoved the doctor toward Qasim, who grabbed the doctor by the arms, holding them trapped against Ibrahim’s body. The gigantic arms of the Jihadist giant held Ibrahim as if the doctor was trapped in an iron vise.

  “Look at this!” Tamursheki said, pointing to his face. Small pustules, some barely visible and some the size of small peas. A couple of spots above Tamursheki’s right eye were the size of the man’s thumbnail. “And I feel a fever aching to bring me down.” He looked behind him and flopped down in a nearby chair, running his hand lightly over his head. “Already half my men are here, laying in their own shit and urine, unable to move. You promised Abu Alhaul to keep us healthy so we could take our cargo to the enemy. Instead, everyone is sick.” He pointed at Qasim. “With the exception of Qasim. I should kill you like I did the Americans.” He placed his finger at his neck and drew it slowly across from left to right. “Slice you through the neck slowly so you feel the blade sink into your throat and clog your airways. Therefore, you can experience the thrill of seeing your life flow from your neck across your chest and onto the floor. You—” He stopped, his head dropping and his breath coming in quick draughts.

  “What would you have me do, Said Tamursheki?” Ibrahim asked, running his tongue across bleeding lips, his mouth achingly dry. He tried to shake himself free of the strong hands holding him. “Let me go!” The hands tightened on his arms.

  “What is this?” Tamursheki demanded. He pointed at Dr. Ibrahim. “You were suppose to keep us healthy. The shots you gave were suppose to protect us from what we carry on the back of the ship, but instead you have betrayed us—”

  “I have not betrayed you! You knew what the shots were. If anyone betrayed you, it was Abu Alhaul!” Ibrahim looked up, narrowing his eyes at Qasim, whose grip loosened. “Let me go!” The grip returned.

  Tamursheki jerked his knife out from where he had it shoved into his belt. “You dare to talk about Allah’s right arm. Abu Alhaul takes his guidance from Allah and is above worldly things.”

  “Then you’re as dumb as you look, Tamursheki.”

  Tamursheki placed the edge of the knife along the left side of Ibrahim’s neck. Ibrahim forced his head backward until it touched Qasim’s chest. His eyes wide as he tried to look down at the knife.

  “Oh, Qasim, my apologies, my friend, but the blood of this infidel is going to soil your new clothes.”

  “I look forward to bathing in his blood.”

  Ibrahim whimpered. Tamursheki knew that the true weapon was him and the other martyrs. There was no nuclear weapon within the large van. At least, he didn’t think there was. Maybe if Abu Alhaul had betrayed his warriors, the terrorist leader had also betrayed Ibrahim and Alrajool. “Don’t,” he begged. “Let me explain. Abu Alhaul had bigger plans for you and your men, Tamursheki. So big that he only wanted you to know it once we reached our destination.”

  The pressure of the knife eased slightly. Tamursheki laughed. “I know. I know those shots you gave us had nothing to do with being sick at sea. I also know that the disease you injected into us wasn’t suppose to erupt now! It was meant for the infidels.”

  Ibrahim shook his arms again, trying to free himself. Tamursheki pulled the knife away from Ibrahim’s neck, looked up at Qasim, and nodded. The giant released him. Ibrahim rubbed his arms as he walked away from the two men.

  “So talk, Doctor. Maybe you know something I don’t. Tell me what this plan is that you would know and the loyal followers of Abu Alhaul would not.”

  Ibrahim positioned himself at the end of one of the tables on which one of the terrorists lay moaning. He glanced down at the man, reached out, and patted him slightly on the shoulders.

  “Speak!”

  Ibrahim nodded. “We’re nearly at our destination. There are things that you’re going to need to do even though I know that you are sick—”

  “I am sick because of you.”

  “Oh, yes. That is very true,” Ibrahim said, his voice failing to betray the amusement he found in the statement. “You’re sick because Abu Alhaul wanted you sick. He wanted you to leave the ship and go throughout America, spreading the germs that I have given you.”

  Tamursheki pointed to the men lying around the medical compartment. “Then, I was right. But, now I can’t do this mission that Abu Alhaul intended. Look at them, they are dying, and they’re dying on board the ship instead of in the middle of America.”

  Ibrahim moved slightly, easing around the edge of the table until it separated him from Tamursheki and Qasim and put the door leading out of the compartment about twenty feet behind him.

  “Abu Alhaul knew the Americans would fixate on the black van tied to the stern of the ship. While they focused on the black van, thinking it a weapon, my job was to infect each of you with smallpox. It was his planning that determined how and where within this large country each of you would travel.”

  The hand holding the knife lay alongside Tamursheki’s right leg. “If that was so, Ibrahim, then you have torn asunder his plan because we are already sick.”

  “Yes, it seems that the smallpox virus was more virulent than I expected.” He pointed to Qasim. “He seems to be the only one unaffected. That’s probably because of his size and weight. If he was as small in body as you, Tamursheki, Qasim would already be among the others suffering here.”

  “We will still do what we must. We have the papers to sail into the harbor where we are to be met at the pier by those who would remove the van.” Tamursheki reached in his pocket. “And I have the key to activate the weapon while it is still on the ship. We would become martyrs of Islam.”

  Ibrahim leaned forward, putting both hands on the table. He glanced for a moment at the man laying on it, looking at his face, a mass of pustules covering every square inch of exposed skin. The eyes shut and mouth pulsing like a fish gasping for water. Unseen, but deep within the man’s lungs, the same sores were growing, collapsing the vital fibers that forced oxygen into the blood. With a clinical thought, Ibrahim knew the man would die within the next few hours, if he lived that long.

  He looked up at Tamursheki. “You really believe that, don’t you? You really believe that you”—Ibrahim waved his hand at the others in the compartment—“and those who follow you are more than pawns in a gigantic game of revenge by Abu Alhaul? Get real! You’re just dumb wanna-be warriors suckered to do his bidding. At least I know what my chances are, and if by a slim chance I do survive this mission, I know what my rewards are.” He pushed himself off the table as he spoke, inching nearer the door.

  “There is no one who is going to meet you. The van will sail with the ship, unless Abu Alhaul has surprised me and planted explosives in it. Then the ship will sink and the real weapons aboard this ship—you—will disappear into America.” He jabbed his finger at Tamursheki. “You are the weapon. You and everyone around here. The others wandering around the ship, guarding and feeding the prisoners, trying to keep dry from the storm around us, or even back on th
e stern worshipping the black kabala strapped down on the deck, waiting for some revelation that will never come.”

  Tamursheki jerked the AK-47 off a nearby counter, flipped the safety off, and aimed it at Ibrahim. “You lie! Abu Alhaul told me himself that we would be heroes. If Allah sees fit we should live, we will be future leaders of the conquest of Africa. You lie!” He brought the weapon up and aimed it at Ibrahim.

  Ibrahim licked his lips. His mouth was dry. The man was mad enough to kill him and any of the others in the compartment the bullets happened to hit. He held his hand up. “Wait! Killing me will not stop what is happening. I’m your only hope.” His voice trembled. He needed to learn when to shut up.

  Tamursheki looked up, his eyes glistened. He lowered the automatic rifle so it pointed directly at Ibrahim. “What can you do?”

  Ibrahim walked briskly to the refrigerator and opened the door. He pulled out a large flat metal tray that took up most of the second shelf. Numerous small glass vials filled most of the holes in the tray. They rattled against the sides as Ibrahim moved the tray from the shelf to a nearby counter. “See these,” he said. “If I give you a shot of this, it will slow down the disease and give you time to do your mission,” he lied, running his hands over the vials of the smallpox germ. If anything it would further infect those already infected.

  Tamursheki raised the AK-47. “I want it slowed, Doctor. Or I want it stopped. If you can’t slow it, then stop it. Stop it until we are at our various destinations where we can reinfect ourselves.”

  Ibrahim met Tamursheki’s hard brown eyes directly and, without breaking contact, lied. “Then, I would have to give you two of them.”

  He flew backward across the compartment, pulling the tray full of the smallpox virus off the counter. Ibrahim heard the sound of the gun firing before he bounced off the medical table behind him. Pain—unbearable pain—swept over his body. Red rivulets flowed from his chest. Between his legs lay something that looked like a human intestine, and his last thought as he died was the question as to whose it was.