The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  Meanwhile, Trip had already slipped below deck. After successfully gaining access to the interior of the ship, he was now creeping through the aft cargo corridor and making his way to the second platform beneath Hold #2—he and Michael’s pre-determined rendezvous point. He could feel the pressure of time pounding against his chest. Every second had to be perfectly accounted for.

  Still holding the Danika PMC team on the main deck, Cam knew Trip was potentially walking into a CIA trap that could turn this entire operation upside-down. Beneath a reserved face and nerves of steel, Cameron Lyle was sweating bullets.

  After reaching the bridge, Michael stepped in and found the captain and the officer of the watch standing in confusion.

  “Captain,” he calmly announced, “my name is Petty Officer Brian Sheldon. Apologies for the inconvenience, but I have orders for you to contact your passenger from the Central Intelligence Agency. We didn’t see him on your manifest, but the security documents issued by the US government list a single CIA field officer aboard this ship. We just need to get an official confirmation that your armed security contractors have the authority to be here.”

  The captain gazed stubbornly back at Michael. “Officer Sheldon, as the captain of this ship, I have the legal bandwidth to confirm all passengers, military and civilian, that are authorized to be on my ship. With all due respect, sir, check the vessel all you want. But, with the exception of myself, you have no authority to interview any other ship personnel without cause, not to mention a warrant.”

  The captain was right. Michael realized his overreach.

  He shook it off and tried to stay in character. “I understand, captain, we just thought it would be helpful to qualify these guys from a direct source.” Michael was backpedaling now.

  “The CIA officer you’re referring to never made the trip,” confessed the captain. “That’s why I left him off the final manifest. Last-minute reassignment or something. But I can tell you he’s not aboard this freighter.”

  With a scowl, Michael accepted the captain’s answer. He wanted to believe the man, but his instincts sensed a deviation from the plan—a plan they had spent weeks preparing. And it was driving him nuts.

  “Thanks for your time, captain. Give us a few more minutes and we’ll wrap it up,” Michael said with resolve.

  And with that, he exited the bridge.

  “Jesus Christ!” he cursed to himself while hurrying down the metal staircase.

  Michael hated surprises, and the more he spoke and interacted with crewmembers, the more likely he appeared to be full of shit. He needed to get off this ship as soon as possible.

  Back in the bridge, the watch officer turned to his captain. “Well done, just sit here until they’re gone,” he commanded.

  “What have you guys gotten me into this time?” the captain asked with a hint of disdain.

  “None of your concern.” The watch officer’s eyes narrowed as he peered down at the deck below, and the Coast Guard officers threatening his operation.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trip had made his way through Hold #2 and slipped through a door into Hold #3, continuing to move toward the middle of the ship. At the end of the corridor, he descended a ramp that reached the second platform holding area—his rendezvous point. Breathing heavily, he checked his watch and waited for Michael. Radio transmissions were out of the question, because good private military contractors, such as Danika PMC, were known to carry portable interception devices. The Huntsmen were determined to pull this off without leaving a trail of any kind—no radio comms, no material evidence and no fingerprints. This mission was to be a sterile and untraceable visit.

  Trip knelt between two crates, patiently staring down the holding bay. A few seconds later, a figure appeared at the top of the long platform, thirty yards from his position. He raised his 9mm and held his breath, trying to focus on the shadowy target. It was Michael, dressed in his Coast Guard uniform with a rifle at his side. Relieved, Trip motioned to a large metal case in the back corner of the hold.

  Without a word, the two crept up and began examining the giant steel framework. It had a digital locking system with a high-tech display screen. Trip instinctively reached into the cargo pocket of his pants and pulled out a flat, handheld decryption device with wires dangling from its side. It was time for the genius to work his magic.

  He connected the thin, flat tips of the wires to the appropriate ports located on the safe’s display module. The row of lights on his handheld device flickered green for a moment before finally syncing up. Deep within the safe, Michael and Trip could hear the locks disengaging as they exchanged boyish grins.

  The door sprung open. Inside they found a cargo crate with the letters “SDFO” spray-painted on the side—San Diego Field Office. Trip stepped into the vault and examined the green transport ticket that had been taped to the wooden crate. After confirming its data, he turned to Michael with a thumbs-up. They had located their target—exactly where Rook said it would be. It was now time to get their prize off the ship unnoticed.

  The crate inside was heavy, but freighters like this held an endless supply of pulleys, hooks and, more importantly, cargo carts. Michael wheeled the nearest one over to the safe and the two men swiftly removed the crate and lunged it onto the escape vehicle. They rolled it twenty yards to the exit door and out onto an exterior platform that overlooked the ocean from the back of the ship.

  While Michael and Trip began pushing the heavy box onto the platform, Cam nervously waited above deck. At some point, he knew, the Danika PMC soldiers would get nervous about their cargo. The mercenaries’ obvious orders were to shoot and kill anyone attempting to steal it. Coupled with the potential of an unaccounted-for CIA agent, Cam took little comfort in their current situation. With every passing second, their success rate plummeted.

  Below deck, Michael and Trip stood on the back platform of the ship, carefully wrapping their target with large straps, which were then attached to the steel loading hook above their heads. Once it was secured, Michael reached over and activated a cargo winch that gently lifted the crate from the small platform deck. The violent waters of the Pacific raged beneath them. Their hearts pounded with adrenaline.

  Finally, Trip and Michael shoved the crate out over the ocean and away from the platform. From a small control module, they lowered it down to the crashing waters below, halting it a mere three feet above the billowing swells.

  As their target dangled safely from the back side of the Maersk Burgundy, Michael and Trip sprinted back through the interior cargo holds and up to the deck of the ship.

  After six minutes—the longest six minutes of Cam’s life—Michael appeared in the distance, briskly walking between stacks of containers across the main deck. When his brother approached, Cam threw his right hand in the air and waved it in a swirling motion, the international sign for let’s get the hell out of here.

  Trip emerged seconds later and made his way across the deck toward the gangway.

  “Ship’s clear, sir,” he called out to Cam.

  Officer McKenzie grinned through the bill of his cap, then turned to the Danika PMC soldiers and handed their credentials back.

  “Sorry for the delay, boys. I appreciate your cooperation,” he said. “We’ll have a report of our engagement submitted to the base and available for your superiors by tomorrow morning. You guys are all set. Have a safe ride to San Diego.”

  He turned and made his way back to the gangway to join Michael and Trip.

  Still aboard the Coast Guard cutter below was one of Rook’s operators, on loan from the Knights of Medina. He waited anxiously at the helm before finally catching a glimpse of the Huntsmen, descending the gangway. They hurried aboard the cutter and the engines began
grinding into reverse. There was one last maneuver to pull off before this phase of the mission was complete.

  “Back platform,” Cam whispered to the captain.

  By now, the Danika PMC guys had gathered at the edge of the ship and peered down at the Coast Guard boat as it backed away from the Maersk Burgundy’s hull.

  Something was off.

  “Morris, Glendale—check our cargo immediately,” the bearded leader ordered over his shoulder.

  Two men—Morris and Glendale—grabbed their assault rifles and ran across the deck to a metal door that led to the large holds in the belly of the ship. Meanwhile, the Coast Guard cutter slowly pulled around to the back of the freighter and out of site.

  It was a race now. Cam could hear the engines of the Maersk Burgundy as they began roaring to life. Their window was quickly closing. The team had anticipated that once they disembarked the freighter, it would only take a trained soldier thirty seconds to run from the deck to the cargo hold and confirm that the asset was gone.

  That was their window—thirty seconds.

  To Cam’s relief, the cutter pulled around the portside corner of the ship and began maneuvering itself toward their target, still dangling against the hull. Cam looked at his watch. Twenty seconds.

  As the cutter moved into position, Trip reached out to get a hand on it. Michael and Cam jumped in to help as the Knight gently guided the cutter in reverse. They frantically unharnessed the crate and pulled it onto the small deck, where it landed with a thud.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Cam yelled as the boat bore down into the rolling ocean, leaving a trail of sea foam in its wake.

  Below the deck of the freighter, Morris and Glendale arrived at a large metal safe in the second platform hold.

  “It’s gone,” Morris announced into his shoulder mic.

  From the bridge, the watch officer listened to the transmission with exasperation and fury. He removed his officer’s cap and placed it on the control dash, then stood up and glared at the Coast Guard cutter pulling away from behind the ship.

  “The goddamn comms are out!” the captain suddenly complained. “I think they’re scrambling our transmissions, and they’ve turned off their GPS transmitter. I can’t even track them.”

  The watch officer didn’t react. He cut his gaze through the window at Cameron Lyle as the cutter broke free and bounced away from the Maersk Burgundy. For a fleeting moment of intensity, the two men locked eyes.

  The Huntsmen were now putting as much of the Pacific between themselves and the freighter as possible. As the sun reflected over miles of rolling ocean beside him, Cam focused on the crate that now sat at his feet. He clung to a metal rail as they rushed through choppy waters, wondering what the hell he had just risked his life for.

  Back on the Maersk Burgundy, the captain was visibly shaken, standing dumbfounded in the bridge. He felt like he had missed something—something very bad that had just occurred under his watch, but he wasn’t exactly sure what.

  “Shouldn’t you call somebody?” he eventually asked.

  “They’re blocking our satellite communications with a scrambling device,” the watch officer calmly stated. “And if it’s long-range, they can shut us down for up to thirty miles. By then they’ll be long gone.”

  The watch officer unbuttoned his white jacket and removed it, exposing a beige t-shirt and a sidearm. He reached for the handheld mic that was channeled for the ship’s loudspeakers—his only line of on-site communication.

  “Quentin, report to the bridge,” he said in a firm, authoritative tone.

  The Danika PMC team leader hurried from the deck to the bridge, where the officer waited impatiently.

  “We have just been robbed by the United States Coast Guard. I’ll be initiating the Octagon Protocol as soon as our comms are back.”

  “Roger that, sir. I’ll inform my men.”

  While he didn’t know the exact details, Quentin knew the Octagon Protocol meant his team was being deactivated, and that this operation was now solely in the hands of the CIA.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cameron Lyle glanced down at his USCG-issued wristwatch as the cutter began closing in on the Coronado Islands. It had been exactly ten minutes since they pulled away from the Maersk Burgundy and the team’s success was dependent on the preciseness of timing. They had disarmed the freighter’s satellite communications with a sophisticated scrambler—personally chosen by Trip for its ability to scramble from long range. And, so far, it was working.

  But, as the Maersk Burgundy sped toward San Diego, the giant freighter would eventually escape the range of Trip’s device. They had calculated that timeframe to be twenty-three minutes.

  Thirteen of those now remained.

  And as soon as the freighter’s comms returned, a distress call would be sent out to the CIA and it wouldn’t take long for fast boats and helicopters to descend on the Pacific in search of the pirates.

  The Coast Guard cutter pulled into a small bay on the northern tip of North Coronado Island. It was a deserted, tropical oasis carefully chosen due to its proximity to their point of intercept. Given the direction they had sped away in, it wouldn’t take long for authorities to determine their destination. It was imperative for them to stay ahead of any search efforts.

  The engines shut down and the cutter drifted in the direction of an old, dilapidated dock. The guys shed their uniforms, gathered their packs and hustled to the portside. With an outstretched arm, Cam grabbed hold of the old weathered post.

  “Let’s move!” he yelled, leaping onto the dock.

  Cam tied off the boat as the crate was lifted to the edge of the cutter, over the railing and onto the dock. Michael and Trip quickly disembarked and huddled around the large box.

  With the help of their hired Knight, the crate was again hoisted into the air and moved from the dock to dry land. There, at the end of the wood platform, was a black, four-wheel ATV with a small trailer locked into the back hitch.

  The guys maneuvered the crate onto the trailer and strapped it in. With their prize now secured, Cam jumped on the ATV and tore off down a narrow trail into the nearby jungle. Hidden in the tree line up the beach were two more ATVs. Trip and Michael sprinted over and jumped onto the Yamaha Raptors that had been planted days before.

  Prior to speeding off, Trip shot a quick smile to the nameless Knight who’d driven the cutter. He received a humble nod in return as the mysterious operative pulled a denim jacket over his back and jogged into the trees. Half a mile away, a twenty-two-foot yacht awaited him.

  Trip and Michael bolted into the tree line and caught up with Cam. The three now sped through the jungle toward their next rendezvous point. The ATVs broke single file through a seam in the trees and emptied into a clearing. It had now been seventeen minutes since they left the Maersk Burgundy, and an estimated six minutes remained until the CIA’s air and sea cavalry would launch a manhunt. Six short minutes until the hunters became the hunted.

  There in the clearing, rotating violently above the jungle floor, were the long, outstretched rotors of an unmarked Huey UH-1. The helicopter was yet another layer of exfiltration that the team had meticulously prepared and organized.

  Cam wasted no time pulling his ATV—with trailer in tow—next to the waiting helicopter in the middle of the forest clearing. The team jumped off their vehicles and lifted the crate onto the open cargo deck of the chopper.

  Cam stepped to the skid and jumped into the cargo bay, then turned and reached for his comrades, pulling them aboard one by one. Within seconds, the Huey raised off the ground and into the air, turning briskly to the east as it accelerated over the treetops.

  “Four minutes!” Michael announ
ced over the blasting rotors of the UH-1. He rolled his neck backward and smiled. “Four fuckin’ minutes!”

  Through aching muscles and adrenaline-filled eyes, a series of victorious grins spread across the men’s faces. With the Huey now darting across the water toward Puerto Nuevo, Mexico—their final destination of the day—the bay erupted with cheers and high fives.

  “Holy shit!” Cam finally said with a chuckle.

  There was a release that suddenly tore through his veins. It was the feeling he lived for—the feeling he needed.

  Minutes later, after passing over the Mexican coastline, the Huey touched down in the back field of a small farm beyond the hills of Puerto Nuevo and unloaded the three men and their cargo. The helicopter and its pilot shot upward and disappeared into the clouds.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rook waited patiently in the cool night air blowing over his balcony. His withered hands danced along the thick, cement rail. He knew the mission was under way, and that shortly he would receive word that the ossuary was safely in the hands of his American counterparts. It couldn’t come soon enough.

  The lights of Bruges decorated the cityscape before him. Rook’s tuxedo had been slowly broken down, he now stood with his shirt unbuttoned and a bow tie hanging from his collar.

  It occurred to him that the Scotch was wearing off.

  Just then, a servant appeared with a satellite phone, carefully placed on a silver serving tray. Rook was traditional in that way—the servants, the silver trays, the white gloves, the whole bit.

  He grabbed the phone and waved off the help. “Yes?”

  “The asset is secure, sir. We’ll be coordinating the handoff shortly.”

  Rook hung up the phone without replying. His gaze once again turned to the welcoming lights of Bruges. With a devious smile, he poured a glass and raised it to the skyline. The Scotch had never tasted so good.