“What are you talking about now?” she asked, sipping her latte. It was getting late and she wanted to be home.
The director nodded to an aide. After a few keystrokes two images appeared on the big screen. They were both satellite pictures of the Iranian freighter. The containers were circled. It was obvious that they had moved. “Our analysts at the CIA have concluded that the cargo containers were moved. This is patently impossible for any simple engine malfunction. Each one of those containers weighs over two tons; that includes the lead shielding.”
“If it’s impossible then what’s your point?”
“My point is that something happened,” the director said simply. “I have my suspicions, and General Mertzl’s midget submarine must be checked out. At the very least we need to repeat the entire inspection process for each container when they arrive at Abu Dhabi.”
“What are your suspicions?” Carrabolla asked doubtfully.
The director shrugged, and said, “The Iranians chose this ship because of its hollow hull; it was designed to be loaded with stones and drop them through the bottom of the ship.”
“You think the Iranians dumped their nuclear material on the sea floor?” she said dubiously.
“Not on the sea floor Ms. Carrabolla, on the midget submarine.”
“For what purpose?”
“We’re working on that,” he said.
“Well you keep it up,” she laughed. “As I told the president, this isn’t a James Bond movie. The simple answer is almost always the best.” She pointed at the screen. “What I see is three containers in the before photo and three containers in the after photo. That tells me that those are the same three containers we started with. I don’t need the wild imagination of some submariner whose been cooped up in his boat for months to tell me different.”
“And the inspection by the UN at Abu Dhabi?” the director asked calmly. “The president agreed to it; wouldn’t it simply confirm to the world what you already know? Here’s your chance to shut us up Ms. Carrabolla.”
“The president said we would do that so we will,” she said, nodding. “The president will enjoy roasting your science fiction theories. Maybe you’ll finally learn your lesson. The world’s not full of bad people gentlemen; it’s just full of people—period.”
“Thank you Ms. Carrabolla,” the director said.
#
As the tow began, Captain Mustafa summoned his first officer to the bridge. “Now that we are out of our smokescreen we will see if we have indeed fooled the Americans.”
“What do you mean captain?”
Mustafa pointed upward. “They will be studying us with their satellites. If they have any doubts as to what has happened we will hear a response. If the ruse worked then we should dock in Abu Dhabi by afternoon.”
An hour later the first mate of the freighter hurried down to the deck, informing the captain of an important message. “You are wanted on the bridge immediately. Colonel Nikahd is on the radio. He says it is urgent.”
The captain waved for the first officer to follow him. As they entered the confines of the bridge he picked up the hand mike, snapping to attention. “Captain Mustafa here sir!”
“Captain, we have a development in the operation,” the voice crackled over the radio. “The American’s have grown suspicious and are requesting that the United Nations inspectors meet you in Abu Dhabi. There they will re-inspect the cargo and ensure that these delays incurred because of the malfunctions on your vessel have not affected the cargo. Do you understand?”
“I do sir,” the captain replied gravely. “We will make preparations.”
“I do not need to ask if you and your men are prepared for this final phase of your operation,” Nikahd said soberly. “This is an important moment in the inevitable ascension of our faith and our people. I expect all will be carried out properly.”
“We will not disappoint you sir!”
“Allah be with you,” Nikahd finished.
“Allahu Akbar!” Captain Mustafa finished.
The first officer looked at Mustafa, mystified. “The inspectors cannot fail to discover that the Uranium is gone,” he said. “These containers are filled with medical waste; they will only pass a cursory inspection.”
“There will be no inspection,” Mustafa informed his officer. “Muster the crew on deck. Colonel Nikahd has given us an opportunity for paradise! This voyage will end the only way it could have.”
“How is that?” the first officer said, still not understanding.
“With martyrdom!”
#
In the situation room, several hours passed before Carrabolla approached the general and the directors again. She smiled thinly, and said, “The president wasn’t happy but he was willing to call his friend the President of Turkey—they share parenting tips.”
“The President of Turkey is a big supporter of Hamas,” the director said.
“He’s no friend of Israel, that’s for sure,” General Mertzl added.
“The President of Turkey takes a very progressive view of the world,” Carrabolla told them. “He’s a staunch NATO ally.”
“In what way?” General Mertzl asked. “How much help did we get from Turkey in Libya, Iraq, Syria—you name it? They’ve been radicalized, and the president is a sympathizer of terrorists not the West.”
“I do hope you mean the President of Turkey, general,” Carrabolla said. When the general shot a disdainful expression, she added, “Either way your assertion is errant. There’s no greater friend of the United States, and he strongly supports Israel’s right to exist.”
“That’s not what he says,” the director reminded her. “We have extensive incidents on tape of him calling for the destruction of Israel, the Jews and the support of jihad and a worldwide caliphate. You know that, or you should; that’s part of your job isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen those reports,” she sneered. Shaking her curly blonde head. “In my opinion you are taking political rhetoric as policy. There’s a difference. We do that during our own campaigns all the time.”
The general laughed, telling Carrabolla, “Oh yes, the Democrats and Republicans are routinely talking about driving each other into the sea and about how nice and peaceful the people in Hamas, Hezbollah and Al Qaeda are to their neighbors.”
“Your sarcasm is noted general,” Carrabolla replied coldly. “It’s right there with bigotry. Some people consider these groups freedom fighters.”
“Like who?” he demanded.
“Believe what you want Ms. Carrabolla,” the director said, bringing up the latest images from ISIS’s rampage in Mosul. It showed dozens of heads mounted on the fence posts of a bridge. He nodded to the image, telling her, “I think these gentleman would disagree with you if they could.”
“You simply don’t understand that part of the world,” she said. “The president understands these people; he knows what makes them tick. I advise you to watch and learn. The president has a firm handle on the situation; he’s not going to panic the way you are.”
“Panic?” the general echoed with contempt.
“Panic, general,” she asserted with a steadfast expression. “In another few hours the Iranian Uranium will be safely locked away in Abu Dhabi. There will be no funny business, your conspiracy theories will be discredited. In a few weeks, once the Israelis have satisfied their bloodlust by dropping bombs on civilians, things will quiet down.”
At the height of her gloating, there was a strident call from the operations officer. “General, you better come take a look at this! There’s a problem with the Atlas!”
Carrabolla looked up to the satellite feeds to see the Atlas swerving away from its tow ship, the aft end completely engulfed in thick black smoke. As they watched. The ship capsized and sank in a matter of seconds.
“What just happened?” Carrabolla demanded.
“The freighter just blew up Ma’am; it just blew up,” the officer monitoring the convoy reported. “I don’t know
what else to say. The Iranians are broadcasting that the freighter struck a mine.”
“Struck a mine?” General Mertzl exclaimed. “They were in the middle of a convoy—under tow—how could they strike a mine?”
“It could, it could happen,” Carrabolla snapped defensively.
The director leaned over the console and brought up the CIA display, ordering the operators to, “Bring up the explosion. Give me a running analysis.”
The screen showed the freighter under tow, nothing out of the ordinary, except, as the analyst reported, “They were heading west to Abu Dhabi at five knots—not unusual for a tow—however, the crew was mustered out on deck.”
“They had nothing to do,” Carrabolla argued. “They were under tow.”
“Actually the crew is quite busy under tow,” the analyst responded. “There are strict maritime procedures for vessels under tow. The crew has a great deal of responsibility; mustering for the captain is not one of them.”
The feed continued and it became clear that the crew responded to whatever the captain was saying, raising their arms in celebration time after time.
“Allahu Akbar!” the director muttered.
“Now you’re grasping at straws,” Carrabolla retorted, albeit nervously.
A blinding flash blanked out the screen. The assembled staff looked on in surprise. It was the director who recovered first.
“A mine wouldn’t flash so brightly,” he muttered. “We’d see a geyser of water, not an explosion.”
“Unless it hit a fuel tank,” Carrabolla interjected.
“Fuel fumes explode, fuel burns,” Mertzl said gravely, shaking his head. “That looked like a magazine going up; only the freighter isn’t carrying ammunition, or rather it shouldn’t be.”
“Could the Uranium have reached critical mass?” Carrabolla speculated.
The military men looked at her with amusement and concern; disturbed that the advisor to the president on national security was so ignorant, doubly so that she’d voice that ignorance.
“Run it back to the point of ignition,” the director said calmly.
The image backed to a point where there was a small pinprick of flame at the stern of the vessel. It erupted through the smokestack and then engulfed the bridge.
“Stop the tape!” the director ordered. He turned to Carrabolla. “The explosion happened at the rear of the ship; in the engine room. When was the last time a mine caught up to a ship; even a ship under tow?”
“They scuttled their own damn ship,” General Mertzl said.
“Why, why would they do that?” the National Security Advisor demanded.
Again the director and the general looked at her with disdain, answering together, “To get rid of evidence! Now it will take weeks to prove they didn’t have the Uranium on board!”
“Look at that, look at the destroyer,” MacCloud noted, running the tape back. “They cast of the tow line just before the explosion. They didn’t want to be afoul of the freighter when she went down—even they knew! Damned sloppy, I’d have thought the Iranians would sacrifice their destroyer for appearances at least!”
Carrabolla stood in stunned silence, but the stares of the military men forced her to action. She took out her phone and called the president.
When President Oetari came on line he wasn’t even attempting to be diplomatic. “Carrabolla, I hired you to take care of international emergencies, not to bother me with them. What is it now?”
“Sir, the Iranian freighter with the Uranium on board has just blown up.” She glanced at the screen with the taped feed. Gann had the crew replay the sequence again. “We’re watching the film of it sink.”
“Did we do it?”
“No sir!”
“What are the Iranians saying?”
Carrabolla was startled by the question, and she stammered, “Immediately after the explosion the Iranians claimed the freighter ran into a mine; however, our preliminary examination of the video suggests,” she hesitated before continuing, taking a deep breath before she did so. “Mr. President, our examination of the video suggests sabotage possibly by the Iranians themselves.”
“That’s not what the Iranians say—they were there—why assume it’s something so farfetched?” the president countered.
“Sir, at this point I don’t think we can,” she hesitated again, and repeated herself, “I don’t think we can trust the Iranians. There’s too much going on. The stakes are far too high.”
“Yes they are Ms. Carrabolla, and I am not about to go rocking the international boat when so much is at stake,” the president replied angrily. “You want me to go and accuse the Iranians of duplicity at a time when the peace of the world is balanced on the edge of a sword—I will not do that!”
“What are your orders Mr. President?” she sighed.
“Begin with lending any and all assistance to the Iranians,” the president told her. “Then have our Ambassador to the United Nations consult with the members of the Security Council. We’ll see where that leads.”
“We’re going to wait on the United Nations?” she asked anxiously. The abandonment of so much authority caught Carrabolla by surprise—not because she hadn’t thought of it, dreamed of it before—but because hitherto, she’d not been so completely troubled by the prospect. Now, with three tons of Uranium missing, she was not so certain that leaving it to the irresolute halls of the United Nations was all that good an idea.
She opened her mouth to speak but the president cut her off. “There you go Carrabolla,” he said curtly. “I expected you to implement that. It’s not so hard. You have to be decisive! Write that down. Now let me get to my fund raiser without any more international emergencies. Problem solved.”
He hung up.
“Problem solved?” the general and the directors exclaimed at once.
“So it seems,” Carrabolla sighed.
The general watched Carrabolla turn and leave, seemingly too embarrassed to continue the discussion. “God help us!” he sighed. With a hard eye he turned back to the Gann, and said, “I’ve got the Key West shadowing that sub. We’ll know pretty soon if they rendezvous.”
“Good, my man on Soekarno’s freighter will keep an eye on the Iranians,” the director told him. “The Iranian military now controls it. How much you want to bet the freighter and the sub cross paths?”
“If that midget sub has those cargo containers on board she can’t go far; they’re not open ocean boats. It makes sense. So the Iranians and Soekarno want the Uranium in Jakarta—right into the hands of Al Qaeda.”
“Your man on the freighter; you left him there?” the general asked.
“It’s a big freighter. He’ll be fine,” the director told his ally. A sudden chill ran down his spine at the thought.
The director instantly regretted his comment.
CHAPTER 32: Confirmation
Slade watched the takeover of the Galaxus from atop the bridge roof. The bug on the bridge window explained everything except why the Iranians were taking over the ship. That explanation came after they left port and rendezvoused with the midget sub.
Slade had to admit that for all the faults of the Iranians the plan was slick. If their idea was to transport the Uranium to Jakarta then it would be immediately available to Al Qaeda for worldwide distribution.
He downloaded his recorded film and conversations from the bug, and then called the director on the satellite. True to his word the director himself was on the line in a few moments.
“Slade, we are shadowing the freighter with a Los Angeles class attack sub, the Key West. The skipper was keeping tabs on the midget sub and documented the transfer of the Uranium. Unfortunately the powers that be don’t put a lot of stock in acoustic data, they only believe what they see.
“It took an act of God for the president to agree to have the UN inspect the cargo on arrival in Abu Dhabi, but someone must have tipped the Iranians off. They blew up their own ship and crew so now everyone thinks the Uranium is a
t the bottom of the Arabian Sea.”
“One torpedo and we make that story come true sir,” Slade replied. “We can’t let that Uranium get on the open market in Jakarta.”
The director whistled, “The president will have an aneurism if we ask to sink a civilian freighter.”
“I’ll try and get the captain and the crew off the ship,” Slade said.
“Get me verification that the cargo is the missing Uranium and I may be able to do something.”
“Yes sir, they’ve only got two hundred Republican Guards watching the cargo. It’s a piece of cake.”
“I understand Slade,” the director said with laugh, “Good luck! Just get through this with as few bullet holes as possible.”
“That’s always my goal,” he said tersely.
Slade spent most of his time hiding in the lifeboat. It was a freefall type boat, completely self-contained, designed to freefall off the back of the ship. In it were supplies and emergency equipment.
Slade helped himself to the rations and the water packs. They were much better tasting than the military stuff he’d gotten used to. He even allowed himself a nap. When night fell things had quieted down and he made his way to the cargo hold.
Slade reached the amidships cargo hold, a huge space one hundred and fifty feet square. He entered carefully via a side hatch. It opened onto stairs lit by a single protected bulb. The stairs led down to a small antechamber with another hatch. Slade hurried down, taking out his forty-five and attaching the silencer just in case.
When he reached the hatch he listened for a moment. Hearing nothing, Slade turned the latch and opened the hatch a crack. He saw no one standing on the catwalk but there were two guards making the rounds of the dimly lit hold. There were four lights illuminating the cavernous space. Each light was placed halfway along the bulkhead just behind the hatch structure. This lighted the center of the hold well but left the corners in darkness.
In the hold were the three containers for the Uranium, each about eight feet cubed, and one long cargo container next to them about half the length of the hold, twenty feet wide and twenty feet high.
The Ghost of Flight 666 Page 25