Death Ship

by Joseph Badal

  “Mike, have your man report in as follows: Saber Team Three reporting in. And they shall have the chastisement of burning.”

  Tanya looked at the digital clock and saw the numbers turn over to 11:31. We’re late, she thought. “Come on, come on,” she said under her breath.

  Then a man’s voice spoke in Arabic the words Frank had told Michael in English.

  Silence again. Tanya knew everyone waited to see if there would be a response. But nothing happened. The clock on the wall turned to 11:33, 11:34, 11:35. She had come to the conclusion there would be no response to the three Saber Teams’ reports when a new voice sounded in the room. The controller in Rome.

  “And he shall soon be well pleased.”

  “This is Natalie Chang. All the sat phones have shut down.”

  General Kashkari said to Anwar Rastani, “We just received a call from Rome. All teams are positioned to strike.”

  “Are the targets still in place?”

  “Yes. All five ships are moored in Sigonella Harbor.”

  “When will the Persians be exterminated?”

  Kashkari stifled a laugh. “Momentarily.”

  The IS agent who had posed as an Iranian exchange student looked around his room in the house near the Vatican. He knew the dozen other Iranian students in the building were asleep in their dormitory-like rooms, oblivious to the role they were about to play in placing blame on the Islamic Republic of Iran for devastating attacks against the Great Satan. He pocketed the cell phone he’d just used to call his commander in Syria. Then he placed the satellite phone he’d used to communicate with the Saber Teams, his false passport that showed him to be a citizen of Iran, and documents that tied Iran to the bombs on board the three yachts into a fireproof metal box hidden beneath the floor boards of the common bathroom. He made one more turn of his bedroom to make certain he hadn’t left anything behind that might tie him to the Islamic State. He’d fit right in with the Shi’a Iranian students here in Rome. What none of them realized was that although his mother was Shi’a, he had followed his Iraqi father’s Sunni teachings, and had become a devout believer in the Islamic State’s goal of establishing a new caliphate in the Middle East. He tiptoed down the three flights of stairs and outside to a Citroen parked in front.

  “Everything go as planned?” the driver asked.

  “Of course. But there’s one more thing to do.”

  The CIA agent assigned to watch the house in Rome had fought off fatigue for the past two hours. Parked across the street in a Fiat, he saw the Citroen pull up. He immediately came alert and called in the sighting and relayed a description of the vehicle and its license plate number. After signing off, he used his camera to photograph the man behind the wheel. Another mundane report in a boring assignment, he thought. Then one of the students whom he recognized as having entered and exited the building earlier that night, ran down the front steps and entered the Citroen. The agent took a picture of this man as well, and then downloaded the photos to his cell phone and emailed them to his supervisor in Rome.

  As the Citroen turned the corner at the next intersection, the IS agent pulled out the cell phone he’d taken from the metal box, dialed a number, and pushed the CALL button. Although he was a block away, he instinctively tensed in anticipation, bent over, and covered his ears. He imagined the destruction. The massive explosion would tear through the students’ house, raze it to the ground, shake surrounding buildings, and break windows for blocks around. Then the fire would erupt in the students’ house and spread left and right, migrating to both ends of the block.

  The CIA agent had just emailed the photos he’d taken when his vehicle seemed to rise off the ground. “What the fu—” Then he and the car burst into flames.

  WEDNESDAY

  JUNE 25

  CHAPTER 39

  At 2335 hours, Commander Jim DiNatale, skipper of the U.S.S. Albuquerque nuclear submarine ordered, “Take her to one hundred feet above the con.” DiNatale felt almost no sense of movement as the sub rose off the sea bottom and then stabilized at the depth he’d ordered.

  “Are the SEALs ready?” he asked his executive officer.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Below the command deck, Chief Bosun’s Mate Samuel Baca addressed the twelve SEALs clustered around the hatches of two escape trunks. “We’ll jettison six of you under the first boat and then move under the other boat and do the same thing with the rest of you. All right, let’s do it,” Baca said.

  The first two SEALs in line climbed into escape trunks. They checked the hoods on their special life preservers which would each provide a bubble of air to breathe, which would be enough to bring them to the surface.

  The lower hatches closed with a “clang” and the trunks filled with water. They felt the change as the trunks were pressurized to sea pressure. Then the outside hatches opened and the two men floated to the surface.

  The first six SEAL team members floated up to the cabin cruiser and pressed suction grips on opposite sides of the craft, amidships, halfway up the topsides. They remained deathly quiet while the sub moved toward the other yacht. Five minutes passed before the receiver on the belt of the leader of the first SEAL team vibrated, which signaled that the second team was in place. He sent a return signal and then twice pressed a button on the side of the transmitter on his belt, which sent the “GO” command to his teammates. It was now 2352 hours.

  Within ten seconds, all six men had discarded their hooded life preservers and, in three-man teams, affixed rubber-coated grappling hooks attached to lines to the cabin cruiser’s rails. The first man in each team scaled the rope attached to the hook on his side of the boat and boarded, unslung his MP5SD submachine gun, which was equipped with an integrated suppressor and a 30-round magazine of 9mm rounds. They left their HK MK23 SOCOM .45 caliber pistols holstered. They scanned the cruiser’s deck and then signaled their mates to follow by pressing their belt transmitters.

  The third and fourth men climbed aboard and took positions at the fore of the main deck.

  The fifth and sixth men climbed aboard just as one of the terrorists peeked out from behind the tapered side of the pilothouse.

  “Zaidi,” the man called out, “did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” another man answered. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  Two of the SEALs on the starboard side of the craft crawled to a companionway that led to the boat’s lower deck. They crept down the steps. The third man on that side held his position. On the port side deck, one man moved toward the bow where what appeared to be a crate blocked access to the bow pulpit. Between the crate and the super-structure of the boat were two large metal containers. One of the terrorists squatted there and appeared to be fiddling with one of the containers.

  The team leader again depressed his belt transmitter twice, which told the man with him and the lone SEAL on the opposite side of the boat to take down whatever terrorists were at the stern. The three moved in that direction.

  “Three minutes,” one of the terrorists shouted from the pilothouse. “Are the detonators in place?”

  “Yes. The timer is set for ten minutes after midnight,” the man at the bow answered. “So make sure you move at top speed.”

  Suddenly, a bright searchlight shined from the pilothouse, apparently aimed at the second boat, which responded in kind. The SEALs froze in place. The light rotated and pointed toward the boat the DELTA team was on. A return light beam came from that boat.

  The two SEALs below deck, having found no one there, reversed direction. The first man climbed to the deck, peered left and right, and behind, and then waved to the second man. Just as his teammate stepped on the first riser, an errant wave hit the boat, rocking it. The second man lost his footing, slipped off the step, and crashed into the bulkhead on the right side of the steps.

  Someone shouted in Arabic.

  The SEAL closest to the bow rushed at the man by the bombs and, as that man rose to his feet, clubbed him on the side of his
head with the butt of his weapon.

  The team leader and four of his mates ran aft. Normally, they would have shouted at the tops of their lungs to create shock and awe, but they didn’t want to alert the terrorists on the second boat.

  As the SEALs stormed the stern, the man in the pilothouse leaped out from under the fixed canopy and pointed a rifle. Two SEALs opened fire at him. The spitting of suppressed 9mm rounds sounded loud to the team leader as he charged like a linebacker at the second terrorist and drove him to the deck. The noise of them crashing to the deck was significantly louder than that of the suppressed submachine gun. Before the terrorist could shout, the team leader smashed a fist into the man’s throat and then clubbed the side of the man’s head.

  The team quickly bound and gagged the two surviving terrorists.

  After he disabled the detonators on the bombs, the SEAL team leader pulled a satellite phone from a waterproof bag around his waist, dialed a number, and waited a few seconds.

  “Go ahead Seaborne Team One,” a female voice said.

  “Two targets captured; one dead. No friendly casualties. Devices secure.”

  “Good work, Seaborne Team One. Is the boat operational?”

  “Good as gold.”

  Tanya breathed a huge sigh. She was thrilled that none of the SEALs had been injured and equally thrilled that two of the terrorists had been captured. And the SEALs had secured the explosives. But the op wasn’t complete. She fidgeted near the communications terminal in the CIA’s Special Operations Center and waited.

  The second SEAL team reported in two minutes later. They’d captured all three terrorists, who had been praying when they boarded their craft, secured the bombs, and had done so without casualties.

  Tanya announced the results to those assembled in the center and waited for the cheers and shouts to subside. Then she informed all of the parties on the open lines to the center that the mission had been successful.

  “Admiral Johnson, please take good care of our guests.”

  Johnson replied, “You can count on that.”

  After she closed the open line, she called Michael. “I think you and your men deserve a few day’s rest. I’ll ask Admiral Johnson to make arrangements. We may need you again, depending on what we get out of the bad guys, so stay on Sicily until you hear from me.”

  CHAPTER 40

  General Qasem Kashkari’s eyes had been glued to the BBC television station since midnight, Italy time. He expected to hear news about the attacks against the ships at Sigonella Naval Base at any moment. But the hours passed with no news. He thought about contacting one of the crews on its satellite telephone, but realized that would be a foolish. If they had been successful and martyred themselves, who would answer? If they hadn’t been successful, and their attacks had been thwarted, the wrong person might answer the call. And be able to trace the call to him.

  The thought of calling Rastani with bad news sent a shiver through his body. Although the attack on Sigonella was only a diversion, he had still wanted to make a statement there. Damaging a U.S. ship and killing members of their crews would have made one hell of a statement. He said a silent prayer to Allah for success with the main attack. Success there would redeem him. He had just finished praying when a cold wave of dread struck his very core. What if one of his men had been captured? He shook as though to rid himself of the dread. Then he remembered the cyanide capsules. He knew his men had been well-trained. None of them would allow himself to be interrogated if captured.

  A light tap-tap-tap sounded on the door to the Oval Office at 9:34 p.m., Eastern time. President Andrew Garvin set down the glass of bourbon he’d just poured. He groaned.

  “Come in.”

  “You have a minute, Mister President?”

  President Andrew Garvin waved at Chief of Staff Warren Thurston, and Seth Kurtz, the Secretary of Defense. “Sure, come in. What’s up?”

  Thurston and Kurtz crossed the plush blue carpet and sat in front of the President’s desk. “We have a situation,” Kurtz said.

  Garvin raised his glass off the desk blotter and slowly leaned back in his chair. “God, my favorite expression.”

  Thurston said, “I just received a call from Hickok over at the Defense Threat Reduction Agency. One of their guys is over in Italy for a conference. He was asked to inspect explosive devices taken off a hijacked yacht.”

  Garvin scowled at Thurston. “You said the DTRA guy was asked to inspect the devices. Asked by whom?”

  “Our old friend Jack Cole. He wanted to make sure there was no nuclear component to the devices.”

  Garvin set down his glass again, stood, and paced the office. “What the hell!”

  “I looked into the matter before coming here,” Kurtz said. “Apparently, the hijacked yacht was a charter hired by Bob Danforth for a family cruise. I don’t have all the specifics, but Danforth and others on the boat subdued the hijackers, found detonators, added two and two, and came up with four. As best as I could determine, a DELTA Lone Wolf team was deployed from Afghanistan to Sicily. NRO and NSA have committed assets to the area. Other explosive devices were found by SEAL teams on two other boats.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  Kurtz said, “One of our subs transported the SEALs who boarded the terrorists’ boats.”

  Garvin shuddered. Just hearing the name Danforth had that effect on him since the Lone Wolf team took down the Black Gold Brotherhood. “I thought Danforth was long gone,” Garvin said. “Was he on some clandestine CIA mission?”

  “No, sir. He really was on vacation. Can you believe it? Wrong place; wrong time.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “About three-and-a-half hours ago,” Kurtz said.

  “I’m the friggin’ Commander-in-Chief, and I’m just hearing about it? Why wasn’t I consulted before the op was put into place?”

  Thurston shrugged.

  Kurtz said, “The entire operation was managed by CIA, in their Special Ops Department. A Lone Wolf operation. You gave the Company authority to—”

  “I know damn well what authority I granted them. You know it was under duress.” Garvin muttered a curse. “How did you get the information about the SEALs?”

  “Came up through the Navy Department’s chain of command. SECNAV just told me he had received an after-action report written by the Sigonella commander. An admiral. The sonofabitch will be relieved of command and encouraged to resign his commission effective tomorrow. He deployed a nuclear submarine and SEAL teams in foreign waters without clearance from the Department of the Navy, the Joint Chiefs, the State Department, or the Commander-in-Chief.” SECDEF’s voice rose in volume as he added, “I won’t have a renegade admiral work for me.”

  Garvin smiled at Kurtz. He’d effectively purged eighty percent of the top officers in all the services since he became President. He’d replaced all the men and women he’d considered “independent thinkers” with politically astute people. Kurtz was one of “his” people.

  “Warren, call the Secretary of State. Have him come here. Then call that asshole Jack Cole and tell him I want to see him. He’s finally gone too far.”

  Thurston took his cell phone from a jacket pocket and walked to the far side of the office. He was about to speed dial the DCI’s number when the phone rang.

  “Thurston,” he barked.

  “Thurston, it’s Jack Cole. I need to set up a meeting with POTUS as soon as possible. There’s something I want to brief him about.”

  “Give me a minute,” Thurston said and put his phone on HOLD. He walked over to where Garvin now stood. “It’s Cole. He wants a meeting.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Jack Cole arrived at the White House at a few minutes after 10 p.m. Warren Thurston opened the door to the Oval Office at 10:15. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Jack,” he said. “The President’s agenda is always full.”

  “I quite understand, Warren. I’m pleased he was able to fit me in at this late hour.”

  Thu
rston grimaced. “He’s ready for you.”

  Cole followed Thurston into the office and was surprised to find Secretary of Defense Seth Kurtz seated on a couch. He was even more surprised to see Secretary of State Barry Steinhouse seated next to Kurtz. His early warning radar tingled.

  “I assume you don’t mind Secretaries Kurtz and Steinhouse joining us,” Garvin said.

  Cole had no use for Kurtz or Steinhouse. Kurtz had been elevated to Secretary of Defense above many more capable people and had become a rubber stamp for Garvin’s dilly-dallying over military matters that weakened the United States’ security and international influence. Cole considered Steinhouse an “appeaser extraordinaire” who couldn’t negotiate his way out of a wet paper bag. Cole had had a great deal of respect for President Garvin when the man first took office. But he’d turned from a strong supporter of American strength to a globalist who didn’t appear to believe in American exceptionalism. The theory on Capitol Hill was that Garvin was positioning himself for a Noble Peace Prize. Kurtz and Steinhouse were perfect examples of Garvin’s recent appointments—tributes to mediocrity.

  The President pointed to a chair across from Kurtz and Steinhouse, with a coffee table between. He waited for Cole to take a seat. Thurston sat in the chair next to Cole’s.

  “You wanted to see me?” Garvin said.

  “Yes, Mister President. I want to make you aware of a situation in the Ionian Sea, near Sicily.”

  “Please go ahead. I’m all ears.”

  Cole did not like the way this meeting had started. He was confused about Kurtz and Steinhouse’s presence. Garvin wore a smug expression. And his tone and I’m all ears comment was less than professional. He didn’t seem to be taking this meeting seriously.