by Dick Couch
The deafening noise of the Knighthawk’s howling GE T-700 turbo-shaft engines and the slapping four-bladed rotors drowned out any attempt to talk. The swick crewmen carefully handed Morales and Mikey over the blunt bows of the SOC-Rs to the waiting arms of a team of corpsmen. They were quickly tied into litters and rushed to the MEDEVAC chopper, which lifted off immediately, heading west back toward the Bonhomme Richard.
Engel and Nolan, after shaking hands with every SWCC sailor, made their way to the waiting chase helo. The lieutenant and the chief quickly embraced A.J., Sonny, Ray, and Weimy as they climbed aboard, then scrambled in after them. They were soon airborne and out over blue water. The six SEALs sat around the small compartment grinning at one another. They were the sheepish, holy-shit-I-still-don’t-believe-it grins of men who had just cheated death. Sonny, seated next to Engel, leaned close to be S clscramblheard over the rotors.
“Here you go, Boss. A souvenir of your visit to Costa Rica.”
Engel opened the waterproof bag, which proved not to be entirely waterproof. It contained the laptop computer, two flash driv
es, and a cell phone from the Tango compound. He regarded Sonny, who even sweat stained and mud splattered looked a lot like Brad Pitt on a good day.
“This could be valuable intelligence, Sonny,” he said in mock solemnity. “I hope you didn’t let it get banged up.”
Sonny’s grin, with those perfect, even teeth, got even bigger. “No more so than me, Boss.”
SIX
In Kherson, Ukraine, the administrative center of the oblast, or province of the same name, near the southern reaches of the Dnieper River, Shabal walked past rows of abandoned warehouses ten kilometers east of one of Kherson’s major shipyards. Once a busy industrial center making machinery for Kherson’s thriving shipbuilding industry, the district, like the shipyard to the west, fell into disuse when Europe’s tanking economy decimated Ukraine’s shipbuilding industry.
A pack of rats feasting on the carcass of a dead cat scattered as Shabal kicked a board at them. Fucking parasites. The dead cat called to mind his younger sister, who now worked as a waitress in Odessa. There she flirted for tips with the vacationing capitalist swine who visited her restaurant. With those tips, she supported herself and her four cats, all adopted from the street—something this poor creature would never know. Shabal hated rats almost as much as he hated capitalist swine. If he wasn’t expected by Kerimov, he’d stop and put a bullet in every rat. A bullet was too good for the capitalists. So he had other ideas.
But he was expected and he had come a long way to complete his mission. He knew Kerimov had what he wanted, and although he would bargain with him—it was always about bargaining—what he was about to obtain was priceless. He knew Christo would have to pay dearly for them, but he did not care. This was jihad, and no price could be placed on that which served the Will of Allah.
Shabal feared nothing but was wary of Kherson’s drug dealers. This area was theirs; the Kherson police had stopped patrolling this district long ago. If one of those drug dealers even half suspected Shabal was a rival dealer trying to muscle in on their territory they’d put a bullet in his brain. He didn’t slow down as he approached the warehouse entrance in the dark alley.
He rapped twice on the heavy metal door, all the while keeping his head on a swivel. Christo would never come here. That’s why he had to do this.
The peephole clicked open and the voice merely said, “Who?”
“Shabal.”
The door creaked open and the bulky man with the AK-47 in his right hand waved Shabal inside the dimly lit vestibule. Once Shabal was inside, the man slammed the metal door shut with a resounding thud and waved the AK-47 at him in an upward motion. Shabal knew the drill. He raised his arms high above his head as the man unceremoniously jerked Shabal’s heavy overcoat to the side and removed the Russian Kobalt 9mm revolver from Shabal’s belt.
That done, the man grunted and waved the weapon at a flight of stairs. Shabal descended as the guard followed him down, the Kalashnikov pointed at his back.
As he negotiated the last dozen steps, Shabal heard the music of a violin. When he reached the bottom steps, he surveyed the room. It was a cavernous bunker at least forty meters by eighty meters, easily five meters high, with raw concrete walls. There were numerous metal tables and working lights suspended from the ceiling. Clearly, this was a serious work area, one that no one was supposed to stumble onto.
Shabal looked at the thick Russian playing the violin. He was an unpleasant-looking man with a flat, Slavic brow, and the instrument looked tiny in his enormous, calloused hands. Yet he was accomplished and played with feeling and passion. Shabal ignored everyone and everything in the room and addressed the man.
“Is that Mendelssohn?”
“Brahms,” replied Kerimov, the correction delivered without emotion but with an air of a man who was self-assured regarding his music.
“I came to speak to Kerimov.”
“I see. And you must be Shabal,” the Russian replied, extending his hand to shake Shabal’s.
Shabal looked at Kerimov’s hand disdainfully, did not take it, and then looked him directly in the eye. His cold stare conveyed that he was here for business, nothing more.
Kerimov recovered quickly. It was all business for him, too, and he knew Shabal needed what he had. He wouldn’t be bullied—or taken lightly.
“As I explained to you on the telephone, I have exactly the thing for your needs,” Kerimov continued. He lifted two heavy duffel bags sitting in front of him and placed them at Shabal’s feet.
Shabal leaned down and unzipped one of the bags, lifted out a thin vest, and held it up with one hand. He looked at it quizzically, as if he were expecting something different.
“They are light, yes?” offered Kerimov, smiling. “You could wear one under a tuxedo or simply a light shirt,” he continued.
Shabal continued to inspect the vest, holding it up close to one of the suspended working lights, examining it from all angles.
Kerimov turned on a handheld metal detector and passed it slowly over the vest, covering every inch of it. Th [nchalle metal detector didn’t make a sound.
Shabal put the vest down on the table.
Kerimov opened the vest and ran his hands over it, continuing his explanation.
“Inside, tiny ceramic ball bearings—five hundred of them—are woven into the vest. The inner lining of the vest is filled with a new generation of explosive gel.” Kerimov spoke with pride; he was a craftsman, and he wanted his work appreciated—as well as paid for. “The new explosive will propel the ceramic balls at a velocity close to that of a chambered rifle round.
“It is truly devastating. It does not look like much, but believe me when I say it would take dozens of your martyrs and your vests to do what one of these can do. They can kill everyone on a city bus or a subway car. Others in the vicinity would die as well. There are few weapons in the world a single man can operate that are more deadly. And not one that is more discreet. You could take a tour of the White House with one of these or board an airliner.”
Shabal trembled imperceptibly as he considered the possibilities. “Can I see a demonstration?” he asked.
“You would have to drive to Siberia,” Kerimov replied, chuckling. “When this explodes, no one is safe. No one inside a kilometer radius is safe.”
Shabal knew there was no possibility of a demonstration, but to ask was part of the negotiation. Kerimov could see that Shabal needed little convincing; now they were talking about the price.
“Walk with me,” he said to Shabal, picking up the vest and walking past tables where women were constructing other vests.
Shabal followed as they moved toward a corner of the bunker where a number of workers were sitting on metal folding chairs, hunched around a small TV. They were eating lunch and watching a soccer match.
Kerimov nodded toward the TV. “You take one of these into a place like that and you will kill hundreds—per
haps thousands—as panic sets in and they begin trampling each other heading for the exits.”
Just then, several of the workers let out a cheer as the home team scored. The roar of the crowd on the TV broadcast became a continuous roar as the TV camera panned the stadium, a vast sea of people leaping and cheering ecstatically.
Shabal stared at the TV, consumed by what he envisioned the vests could do—the casualties they could cause.
* * *
Christo stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office on the thirty-fifth floor of Kiev’s Esplanada Continental office building looking down at the landscape of Ukraine’s capital city. From his vantage point in the center of the city, more than five hundred feet above the sprawling cityscape, it seemed as if he could see all of Kiev—from Independence Square [nde th to Saint Andrews Church to Mariyinsky Palace to the Verkhovna Rada building, seat of the Ukrainian Parliament, to every monument and building in the city.
But unlike the slow-moving, winding, Dnieper River far below him, Christo’s brain was moving at warp speed. He knew what he had to tell Shabal, and he thought he knew what Shabal’s reaction would be. He wrestled with what to say and just how to say it. He knew he had to keep Shabal and his terrorist plot moving forward at any cost. This was the key to his own plan and, for that matter, the life he envisioned with his wife, Dominga, and daughter, Solana.
“Your guest is here,” a voice called from over his shoulder. His secretary, per his instructions, ushered Shabal in.
Christo spun and looked directly at Shabal. “Look at you, my friend! You look the same—older, harder, but the same.”
Shabal lowered his head in a neutral gesture but said nothing.
“May I take your coat?” the secretary asked politely. “Or get you something to drink?”
“That will not be necessary,” Shabal replied.
Christo sat down heavily in his chair and exhaled deeply, partly a natural reaction and partly to convey his apprehension—his uneasiness. He wanted Shabal to know he was troubled—to understand the difficulty of his position. Christo also knew this would be hard for Shabal to believe given Christo’s privileged upbringing, his wealth, and the well-appointed office suite in Kiev’s most prestigious building. Shabal now sat across the desk from Christo, shucking his coat onto the arm of the chair.
“From time to time I see former friends—people from my old life—and it’s almost always a disappointment,” Christo began wearily, speaking in their native Chechen dialect. “They’ve become distant or they’ve become boring or, more often than not, they have crawled into a vodka bottle.”
Christo’s remark accomplished its purpose and brought a small smile to Shabal’s face. He swirled the ice in his water glass and raised it to Shabal.
“It’s nice not to be disappointed for a change, Hubie.” It was a name they used as childhood friends.
Shabal’s smile vanished as rapidly as it had appeared. “That’s not my name,” he replied, all but spitting out the words as he turned his face away from Christo to look out at Kiev in the distance.
Christo recovered quickly, measuring Shabal and his mood. As difficult as this man could be, he still needed him.
“I know, I know. Mohammad Abu Shabal. The son of Shabal. Come, my old friend, your father’s name is Afghan.”
Shabal bristled and continued to stare outside, ignoring the man behind the desk. Christo thought he knew him, but he did not. Yes, [dids rema they had been schoolmates as boys. And yes, they were once close. Christo was sent to the upscale boarding school by his indulgent parents; Shabal had attended the same school on scholarship. But he had had to work two jobs after school just to dress like Christo. No, the man behind the desk did not know him. And now, what the hell was he up to?
“Things change,” Shabal replied, “as have the times we live in.”
“Yes, things have changed,” Christo began, leaning across his desk to get as close to Shabal as he could. “That’s why this might be the last time we meet like this. For I must find myself a hole to hide in—for me and for my family.”
That got Shabal’s attention, and he finally turned to look directly at Christo.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s like this,” Christo continued. “I’m being watched by the CIA, and I can afford to take no chances. As soon as arrangements can be made, I am taking my family away. I have neither the energy nor the will to fight the Americans, and I will not endanger my family.”
“But what about our plan, Mikhail?” Shabal protested, shock registering on his face at this unanticipated announcement. “My men have been training for close to a year. I have devoted almost all my resources to this project. Much of what we have worked for is in place.”
“And our plan,” Christo interrupted, “this arrangement between us, will be honored. Just because I have chosen early retirement doesn’t mean my promises will go unfulfilled,” he continued, holding Shabal in his gaze.
“But there is still much to be done.”
“And it will be. However, I must insist the completion of our plan be done through associates of mine—trusted associates. I am being watched. It is for the safety of all concerned. I simply must distance myself from you and the execution of what you are planning.”
“This is not good, not good at all!” Shabal exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. “I trusted you, not your associates. Now you wish to run and hide. You are a coward!”
Christo paused to frame his words. They were now on unequal footing. Shabal cared nothing for his own life. If it was forfeited in serving this plan or the cause, so be it. Christo did not share this commitment, nor would he put his family at risk to serve “the cause.”
“Yet I must insist,” Christo replied, also rising, trying to be firm but calm. He would not have Shabal towering over him. And, he reminded himself, not for the first time, that he was dealing with a zealot. “You have your plan, and I respect that. You have had my help and the help of my organization. And you will continue to have it. But I have my family to think of. I ask that you respect that as well.”
“You are a coward!” Shabal repeated. “This is bulls [Thiv> hit and you know it. This work and this plan are too important for you to turn it over to your . . . your ‘trusted associates,’” he spat out, his anger boiling over. “It’s too late. You can’t change this and run away.”
“Nothing changes,” Christo said evenly, his voice conveying resignation and the fact that he was trying to be reasonable.
Shabal could no longer stand still. He began to pace, throwing his hands into the air as his anger turned to rage—rage now directed at Christo.
“You just told me that now you want out—that others will act for you, in your place. Do you know what I had to do to get here? Do you know the men I had to sacrifice to get here? No, you have no idea. No, you are shit and a coward! You live up here in your ivory tower. You don’t know and you don’t care!”
Shabal turned his back on Christo and walked to the other end of the massive office suite, muttering to himself, too agitated to continue or to stand still.
Christo lowered himself to his chair and watched Shabal closely, unsure of how to proceed. And, he asked himself, could this have gone down any worse? Or any better? He had counted on Shabal wanting to go forward, with or without him. Now he was not sure. Dealing with men who refused to compromise was difficult at best. In business, Christo reflected, one compromises often.
He had tried to put himself in Shabal’s shoes. He knew Shabal was a Muslim zealot with a single mission. He had no family, no money, and no other life. He had nothing Christo had, nor at this point, did he want to. He, Christo, was a businessman. Yet they had a common interest, did they not? There was no reason they shouldn’t be able to come to an understanding.
Shabal wanted to kill as many Americans as he could, and he had recruited and trained a small army of martyrs committed to this same goal. And now he had just the right weapon—these vests Shabal had
told him about—but he would need Christo and his resources to purchase them and to get them onto American soil.
While Shabal paced, Christo considered his position. The CIA was on to him. They had been on to him for some time, but then he was just another drug smuggler. It had been his ties to Shabal and the issue of terrorism that had elevated his profile at Langley. Otherwise, he would have been content to keep plying his trade and adding to his billion-dollar-plus net worth. Thanks to his links to Shabal, that was past. And now this new plan promised to double—or triple—his net worth overnight.
And he marveled at the simplicity of the plan. Just before Shabal unleashed his legion of martyrs armed with their explosive vests in the United States, Christo would short-sell a broad bundle of U.S. stocks. Others, such as American defense stocks, he would buy long on margin. When the markets crashed and corrected following the attack, he would sell. Then and only then would he have all the money he, Dominga, and Solana would need for the rest of their lives. They would relocate far from Costa Rica, in some Muslim country where the CIA was unwelcome.
It was a brilliant plan, and the only thing that could wreck it was for Shabal to balk. And now he had—or seemed to have. He had to fix that. This was business, he reminded himself, and there was always room for compromise. He would simply have to reason with the man.
“Abu Shabal, please, sit down. I know we can work this out . . .”
* * *
Later that morning, as the Bonhomme Richard steamed north off the west coast of Guatemala, Lieutenant Roark Engel made his way to the ship’s sick bay. He had changed from his blood-and-mud-encrusted battle dress into a clean set of camouflage utilities, but his face was marked by dried sweat and residual black face paint that still rimmed his eyes and mouth. He looked like a Shakespearean actor who had only partially removed his makeup. The medical facility was amidships near the waterline, so the movement of the big ship was barely discernable. He stepped through a bulkhead coming just outside the door to sick bay and into a large triage area. In doing so, he moved from Navy haze gray into a world of white linen and stainless steel. The sick bay suite was quite spacious, as it was designed to handle the combat casualties of a Marine Expeditionary Unit. There was no reception area, just a large treatment room that ran athwartships with a long line of critical-care treatment tables. Engel paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright lights, and then moved cautiously past the line of tables. A corpsman, recognizing him as one of the embarked SEALs, pointed him to a series of patient bays off an adjoining corridor. He nodded his thanks as he moved along the line, glancing into two empty bays before finding the one that was occupied.