Trident Force

by Michael Howe

  “Leave it and stand by for a few minutes.”

  “Roger.”

  Mike then pulled out his walkie-talkie and asked Covington to come below and join them.

  “You don’t want to remove it now?” said Covington after Chambers had explained the situation to him.

  “No, not now. We have the detonator, but we have no idea whether or not it’s booby-trapped. The odds look better to me to leave it. Once we get to Ushuaia, we can do it right.”

  “Ummm,” remarked Covington skeptically.

  “How much of the oil can you transfer to other tanks?”

  “Maybe half.”

  “I suggest we transfer what we can while flooding the tank with nitrogen from the firefighting system. After the transfer is complete, cover the surface of what’s remaining with foam and then pump it over the side. That way, even if it does blow, the damage will be limited. If we manage to meet Polar Duchess in twelve or so hours, we can probably hold out—especially if we keep the ship buttoned up.”

  “Understood. Now, who’s going to explain all the oil we’re dumping to Rod Johnson?”

  “Remind him that diesel is much less destructive than bunker fuel. Especially out in open waters.”

  “I’m sure that will make him feel better.”

  The farther north Aurora got, and the more the day advanced, the better the weather became. By 1300 hours, when the first helicopter reported its imminent arrival, the winds were down to a breeze-like forty knots and the seas a modest ten to fifteen feet.

  On learning of the helo’s approach, Covington turned Aurora into the seas and slowed in order to reduce her motion and make it more predictable. As the first aircraft approached—an Argentine naval one—the first five evacuees were brought on deck.

  MacNeal watched as the craft edged in, then hovered directly overhead, lowering a stretcher as it did. Once the stretcher had touched the deck, the boatswain and two men rushed for it. They disconnected the wire from the stretcher. MacNeal and one of them connected the wire to one of the occupied stretchers—one of six the ship carried—while the third man carried the just-delivered empty off. MacNeal waved his arm in big circles and the helo whisked the first patient up and away, then returned for the second.

  The first five transfers went faultlessly, and the first helo sped off over the horizon as the second sped in to repeat the process.

  The first four transfers went like clockwork, but during the fifth—the patient was Chrissie Clark—near disaster developed. Just as Chrissie, her broken jaw wired in place and her bullet holes all patched, was being lifted off the deck, the helo was knocked to one side by a gust of wind and the stretcher was dragged across the deck toward the bulwark, screeching as it went.

  The boatswain and several hands jumped forward, grabbed the stretcher and raised it as they were all dragged toward the side. Thanks primarily to luck, they got Chrissie up and over the bulwark just in time. The injured singer then swung in a great arc away from the ship. On the return swing she barely avoided a bath in the shimmering, oil-fouled waters as the pilot finally managed to regain control and haul her up. Later, much later, when the incident was described to her, Chrissie said she was sorry she’d been so doped up at the time. She’d missed it all.

  The last four of the fourteen persons whom Dr. Savage considered seriously enough injured to risk the transfer were called for by the same contract supply helo that had delivered the Trident Force. All went smoothly.

  The operation had a large number of spectators. While most had, by now, expressed the strongest possible desire to be “off this damn ship,” none expressed any wish to leave as the wounded were. Except Katie, now wearing a new cast on her left arm. She thought it looked like great fun—as long as you didn’t have to be shot already in order to be allowed to do it.

  Most of the other passengers smiled and admired her cast, especially when she pointed out Arthur Covington’s signature on it. A few averted their eyes and edged away, embarrassed, it would seem, and hoping not to be recognized as having been one of those who contributed to her injury.

  At 2215 hours, to the immense relief of everybody aboard Aurora, the brightly lit cruise ship Polar Duchess appeared on the horizon. An hour later she had approached and circled in order to steam back to Usuaia alongside the Aurora. Her boats were all swung out, just in case they were needed in a hurry.

  18

  Rio de Janeiro

  At first, Mamoud al Hussein paid only limited attention to the live broadcasts from Aurora. They were, after all, mere puffery—focusing almost exclusively on just the sort of petty minds in which he had no interest. But as the situation became more confusing to him, when things that he had no hand in started happening, he began to pay attention. By the time Marcello Cagayan launched his campaign of destruction and death, Mamoud’s eyes were fixed with horror on the TV. But it wasn’t the pain and suffering that horrified him, it was the seeming failure of his plan, which Omar’s little monkey had clearly hijacked. Al Hussein loathed disorder and illogic. He considered both to be the most odious forms of insanity. Now it was just this form of insanity that was driving what had been his plan.

  Yes, the little whoreson had terrified half the world and made the Brotherhood of Faith a feared name, but what of the last two charges? For Mamoud, there was more to the affair than terror. His ego was involved. His ability to conceive, to manage, to organize, to execute. And now, to his shame and fury, it was not his plan being displayed on every TV in the world. It was the mad caperings of a little Filipino nonentity.

  It took Mamoud several minutes to get his anger under control. To move on to the next question: If it was not his plan being executed, then were his defenses still intact? Or had the vicious little lunatic exposed him to new danger?

  He had, all along, assumed that once his plan had been executed the world’s eyes would turn to Tecmar. He was certain that, in the end, while there might be whispers, the world would agree that whatever had happened had happened despite management’s best efforts. And, as for himself, he was clearly above it all. He was a friend, a confidant—in some cases almost a savior—of countless men of great importance. His engineering textbooks were used at the most prestigious universities around the world. He wasn’t some ignorant tribesman from who knows where. He was more scientifically and technologically advanced than 95 percent of the American population.

  While some might whisper vague suspicions, he was, in the end, as safe as was the king of Saudi Arabia.

  On the other hand, he thought, as he finally got his breathing under control, the little creature’s performance had been so mad that no sane person would ever associate it with any but the most obviously insane. Some minor desert Mahdi with delusions of grandeur. He would stick with his initial plan, even if Cagayan had not. He picked up his phone and called Roberto Palmeira, Tecmar’s COO.

  “Have you been watching the TV, Mamoud?” asked Palmeira.

  “Yes. It’s stomach-turning.”

  “I will never understand the terrorist mind. I know about poverty, religious fanaticism, drugs, but it still escapes me. I hope to God it’s not connected in some way with the overhaul.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m beginning to suspect that some connection does exist, and even if it doesn’t, I’m afraid many may believe it does. Or may wish to believe it does.”

  “Do you want me to call the federal police and have them redirect their investigations?”

  “Yes, and I would also like you to call the United States Embassy and see if it would be possible for the Rio FBI office to send a team. If something happened here, I want to know about it. If nothing happened here, I want the world to know that nothing happened here.”

  “As you’ve pointed out on several occasions, Mamoud, it’s logically impossible to prove a negative statement.”

  “Indeed it is, but we must do our best.”

  19

  Ushuaia

  There was a stiff breeze blowing as Aurora approached Us
huaia harbor. There was also a light rain, a high-powered drizzle that obscured much of the town and the mountains beyond. The temperature, however, was well over sixty degrees, mild for the world’s southernmost city, even at the height of its summer.

  Mike Chambers was standing alongside Covington as the pilot boat surged up to the ship’s starboard side, delivering not only the pilot but also Commander Artemio O’Brien, the captain of the port.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Covington to the two Argentine mariners, both of whom he knew, having sailed out of Ushuaia for some time. He then went on to introduce Mike.

  “You two have had a very difficult voyage,” remarked O’Brien as the pilot walked out on the wing of the bridge to conn the ship.

  “Yes,” replied Covington with little enthusiasm.

  “I’m sorry I have to put you on a buoy for the time being. We can move you alongside a pier once we’re certain the ship is safe. We’ll get all the passengers off just as soon as we are moored.”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way, sir.”

  “And you, Captain Chambers? Are you satisfied with my desire that our people should remove the charge and take custody of the detonator—which will be immediately flown some distance away so our technicians can examine them without the risk of doing further damage?”

  “It’s your harbor, Commander, and my people are very beat-up and tired. When you’re tired, you make mistakes. I’m also very much aware that you’ve had more experience with terrorists than we have.”

  O’Brien turned and looked astern, out toward the Beagle Channel. “At one point in our not so distant history we had the misfortune of having terrorists on both sides. It was very uncomfortable for those of us in the middle, especially those of us who may have known a little more than the others and found what we knew hateful, yet failed to act decisively. But that, I hope, is over forever in Argentina.”

  Chambers looked down at the Argentine’s left hand, which was missing the pinkie and ring finger.

  O’Brien followed his glance, then smiled slightly. “That is not the result of the ‘Dirty War.’ That is the result of frostbite. And youthful stupidity. When I was younger, I served in a supply ship down here, and one winter I was a little careless. Far too careless.”

  “About the press. It appears that those who are aboard have no desire to stay. However, I’m sure there are more ashore.”

  “Our people have no more desire than yours to have them looking over their shoulders when they’re trying to disassemble bombs. There are plenty of passengers to talk to, and if any press get by me, throw them off and blame it on us.”

  The conversation petered out as a large harbor tug came alongside. The pilot stopped Aurora’s engines and used the tug to edge the ship toward the rusty mooring buoy, which had once been painted white. Lacking an anchor windlass, Boatswain MacNeal had to make use of the smaller tug to pass one of the ship’s anchor chains to the buoy and secure it. The job was completed with surprising speed, and a few minutes later the first passenger ferry appeared—this one assigned to bring ashore those of the wounded—excluding Ray—whose injuries had not been considered serious enough to justify the many risks of being medevaced.

  “Arthur,” said O’Brien quietly as he and the pilot were leaving the bridge, “we both will be very busy the next few days, but after that I hope you will find time to dine with Gloria and me. She insists.”

  “Yes, thank you. I doubt I’ll have a choice, right?” Covington smiled for the first time that morning.

  A few minutes after O’Brien, and then Mike, had left the bridge, Arthur Covington, his back just as straight as ever, walked slowly down to the landing stage. He felt it was his duty, undoubtedly one of his final duties, to say good-bye to all the passengers, the vast majority of whom had chosen to fly north in the morning, directly back to the United States, where many would immediately grab their phones to call their attorneys. Or so Covington assumed.

  It hurt to think that his future and his reputation would, in the end, be decided by one or more civil juries composed of men and women who had never been to sea at all, much less to the Southern Ocean. And he had little confidence in the owners. They wouldn’t hesitate to damn him with the faintest of praise then throw him to the lions.

  Well, if worse came to worst, O’Brien could probably get him a job skippering one of the tourist boats that bounced up and down the Beagle Channel.

  The departures were much as he’d expected. James Ives told him he was calling his lawyer the instant he got ashore. Brad, Chrissie’s ex, tried to take a swing at him but stumbled and would have fallen into the boat had Dave Ellison not caught him.

  And there was one surprise, thought Covington. I still don’t really like the man, but he’s done a good job. As good as any of us.

  The good-byes, however, were not all painful or embarrassing. Senator Bergstrom and Babs each shook his hand, smiled and left, making no more wake on their departure than they had throughout the voyage. Linda Williams was so busy talking to Rod Johnson that she hadn’t even noticed Covington. Penny Evans, sad but dry-eyed, thanked him for his efforts and told him she would always admire him. That elderly woman whose name he could never seem to remember—the one with a husband named Fred who always smiled and never said anything—told him she and Fred had sailed with at least forty captains “over the past century or so” and he was the greatest of them.

  And then there was Katie: “We’ve had a tough time, Captain Covington, but you’ve saved us all. Thanks.”

  “I understand you three are among the few who’ve decided to take a few days to visit Tierra del Fuego.”

  “Yes. We’re all very excited. We’re going to see llamas.”

  “Not penguins?”

  “Are there penguins here too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Penguins and llamas, then. Have you seen where that navy guy wrote his name on my cast?”

  Covington looked and saw, “To Katie with Love, Ramon Fuentes.”

  “He’s a good guy, Katie.”

  “Yeah, the greatest.”

  “These are marvelous machines your people come up with,” said Commander O’Brien as he and Mike watched three Argentine technicians struggle to get an advanced imaging device—similar to a CAT scan—down into the now-empty number two fuel tank.

  “Unfortunately, they’re too damn heavy and bulky for teams like mine to tote all around the world.”

  “I can understand that.”

  While the two officers watched part of the Argentine explosive ordnance team rig the scanner, other members were filling the voids outside the tank with sandbags in the hope they would absorb some of the blast—just in case things didn’t go as planned.

  Two paper cups of coffee later, the device was rigged and in operation. The display was spectacular. Every wire, every resistor, every diode was visible. It took the two electronic technicians less than ten minutes to make their pronouncement: There were two different charges in the same device, with their detonators both wired to a very basic radio receiver powered by a small lithium battery. No evidence of a booby trap. In sum, an only slightly complex, magnetically attached limpet mine—although one of no recognizable origin.

  “A piece of cake,” the young lieutenant in charge said with a grin, as he supervised the placement of a preprogrammed robot next to the device and the removal of the scanner. Half an hour later the device was being towed ashore, on its own little makeshift barge, for further study. Very careful further study by more robots.

  “I’m sorry you can’t stay another day or two, Captain,” said O’Brien as they climbed a ladder into the superstructure. “This is a harsh land but it has its beauties. At any rate, a helicopter will pick you up at dusk and take you to the naval air base to meet your jet. With luck, the media will know nothing until it is too late for them to try to chase you.”

  “Thank you, Commander.”

  “Tell me, do you think you found all the devices? It’s somet
hing that has always bothered me. If you find one, how do you know there’re not others?”

  “I always worry about the same thing.”

  “Yes? I plan to have this ordnance team spend another three or four days taking another look. A new set of eyes.”

  “Let me get you the job list from that last overhaul. I still think it’s the best guide we have.”

  “I’m sure it will be more than just useful. Will you join me for a quick drink at the ship’s bar? We’ll probably have it all to ourselves.”

  “Are you buying?”

  “Arthur is. I’ll tell him later.”

  When Mike got back to his suite, he found the team all packed and ready to go, Jerry having stuffed Ray’s duffel for him. Ready but also dejected.

  “What’s your evaluation, Boss?” asked Alex. “Did we win or lose this one?”

  “It’s a hard call, but I think we did win. If we’d lost, we’d damn well know it.”

  He looked around the room and decided to take a note from O’Brien’s book. “We’ve got at least an hour before the helo arrives, and none of us is going to be driving anything for the next day or two, so let’s have a drink. What can I get for you, Alex? Ted? Jerry? What about Ray?”

  “He’s dead to the world, Captain,” said Ted. “We’re going to have to carry him to the helo.”

  20

  South of Alexandria, Egypt

  A man of many names, one of which was once Omar, sat back from the window of the all-but-abandoned five-story apartment building. His silenced sniper rifle was held in place by small sandbags on the table in front of him. The room, he speculated, had last been occupied by a woman, or a girl. What other possible explanation was there for the peeling plaster’s having been painted pink?

  Smiling, the man returned his attention to the recently cleared field about a quarter of a mile away. Not only had they cleared the land, but they’d already started pouring the foundations for the huge new solar panel factory that was scheduled to rise there soon. It was undoubtedly a giant step forward for the local economy. Fortunately for him, despite its obvious value, a group of local dissidents had taken offense and were protesting its construction loudly.