by Joseph Badal
Roberts gave his dog the “search” command, which sent the animal scurrying inside the bridge.
Michael posted one man at each of the two doors and then followed Morrell inside. The heavy, acrid odor of tobacco and unbathed bodies hit him. The man at the helm was heavy-set, had thick, greasy black hair sprinkled with gray, and wore a five-day beard. His clothes were beyond wrinkled and sweat-stained. “You’re the captain?” Michael asked.
“Yes. Captain. I am Captain Mustapha.” His accent was heavily North African. Michael guessed Egyptian. “You pirates? You hijack ship?”
Michael ignored the questions. “Shut down your engines,” he ordered.
The man complied.
“The bridge is clean, sir,” Nick Roberts said as he re-leashed his dog. “No weapons. No explosives.”
“How many men are aboard?” Michael asked the captain.
He tipped his head toward the three men on the other side of the bridge. “Those; four more asleep in bunks; one man in engine room.”
“Any weapons?”
“The crazy Syrian, Hussein, has rifle. He’s a jihadi. No other guns on my ship. I don’t allow.”
Michael thought about asking why the captain allowed the man named Hussein to bring a weapon on board but decided that was a conversation he didn’t need to have at that moment. Besides, Salazar had already taken out one of the crew. Probably Hussein. “Muster your men up here to the bridge. If even one of them shows up with a weapon or offers resistance, I’ll put all of you on your lifeboat and sink your ship.”
The captain wind-milled his arms. “No sink ship. Is my ship. You make Mustapha poor man again. I being very cooperative.”
“Then get your men up here.”
Mustapha pressed a button that emitted a loud squawk and then he hit an intercom button and shouted in Arabic into a speaker.
Michael told Morrell, “Make sure the entire crew comes up here. Tie them up. Confiscate their cell phones. Have our Arabic speakers question them.”
Michael turned back to the captain. “I want to know about the tanker that switched transponders with you.”
The man visibly breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed his face against his shirtsleeve.
“I tell you everything. They force me to do this thing. They threaten to kill wife and children if I do not help them.”
Michael thought the guy probably lied about being threatened, but he didn’t care as long as he told him what he needed to know.
“I want your transponder identifiers. Your original AIS and LRIT information.”
The captain twisted to his left and reached toward a drawer.
Morrell grabbed the man’s wrist and growled, “Easy, Mustapha. Nice and easy.” He’d already checked the drawer, but was naturally super-cautious.
“No gun, no gun,” Mustapha shouted in a now-high-pitched voice. Sweat had broken out again from his forehead to his chin. “Is record book in drawer. I have all information in drawer.”
Morrell pulled open the drawer and removed a three-ring binder. He opened it and passed it to the captain who flipped through a few pages, stopped at one page, and handed the binder to Michael. He stabbed a fat, gnarly-nailed, tobacco-stained finger at the middle of the page and said, “Is transponder you want to know. I being cooperate. No?”
“Yes, Captain Mustapha, you are very cooperative.” Michael handed the binder to Lieutenant Campbell. He then handed Campbell his sat phone. “Hit speed dial position 2 and call Raymond Gallegos. Give him the stats from that page.”
“That information no good,” Mustapha said. “No switch transponders.”
Michael returned his attention to Mustapha. “What are you talking about?”
“They put Kerkira transceiver and transponder on my ship. They no take my electronics. No switch.”
“Let me get this straight. You now have the Kerkira’s electronics on the Arias, but the Arias’s electronics were not transferred to the Kerkira.”
“Is true,” Mustapha said.
“Who did this?”
“He give me name. Maybe is false. One thing for sure, I know man is Algerian. I tell from his accent when he speaks to me Arabic.”
“What name did he give you?”
“He say Ahmed.”
“How did you communicate with Ahmed?”
“I no commun . . . I no call Ahmed. He always contact me. I no have number for him.”
“How did he call you, Mustapha? On the radio? On a cell phone? On—?”
“Cell phone.” The man abruptly stopped and a light seemed to go on in his head. “Ah, I see. Maybe his number is on cell phone.” He took a phone from his shirt pocket and pulled up a list of his recent calls. “Is third call from top that comes from Ahmed.” The man gave Michael a yellow-toothed smile. “What you think? You maybe call that number and Ahmed answer?”
Michael turned to Campbell and raised his eyebrows.
“Mister Gallegos is on the line with NSA. He told me to hold for a minute.”
“General,” Lieutenant Campbell interrupted.
Michael spun around and looked at Campbell.
“The NSA was able to pull up the tanker’s LRIT signature up to a couple hours ago. The ship was on a southeast heading.”
“Not toward Piraeus?”
“No, sir. Away from it.”
“What happened a couple hours ago?” Michael asked.
“Mister Gallegos thinks the ship deactivated its AIS and LRIT systems. It’s sailing blind as far as intel is concerned.”
Michael took the phone from Campbell and said, “Ray, are there any refineries in the direction the Kerkira headed?”
“Hold a second,” Ray said. When he came back on the line a couple minutes later, he said, “The closest refinery is near Salonika.”
Michael didn’t immediately respond.
“You still there, Mike?” Ray asked.
“Yeah. Listen, Ray, these guys have played games from the start. First, the attacks in the Ionian, which had no realistic chance of success. Then the AIS/LRIT switch with the cargo ship. Now, the heading around the Attican Peninsula. It’s been one ruse after another. That tanker is up to no good.”
“I agree, Mike. But trying to ID that ship when it’s sailing blind won’t be easy.”
“What about the telephone number Campbell gave you? It came off the cargo ship’s captain’s cell phone. Perhaps someone on the tanker has that number. Can we locate that phone’s signal?”
“The NRO redirected a couple satellites over the area a little over an hour ago. I gave them the phone number. They’re trying to home in on it. So far, they got nothin’.”
“Dammit!”
“I suggest you return to the Andrew Jackson. That’s about the best platform I can think of from which to mount an operation in the area.”
“Will do, Ray.”
“One other thing, Mike. Director Cole talked with your dad. He told him he wants his help in this matter. Brainstorming, that kinda thing. He’s on his way to the aircraft carrier.”
CHAPTER 67
Jack Cole entered the Oval Office and waited for the President to tell him to sit down. “What’s so important?” Gavin said.
Cole leaned forward and handed POTUS a slip of paper with the words I suggest you turn off the recorder. Garvin shot him a sour look but leaned over and hit the switch under his desk.
“This is getting to be a habit.”
“Just protecting my President,” Cole said with a heavy tint of sarcasm. “Plausible deniability.”
Garvin pushed back in his chair, folded his hands against his stomach, and waited.
“I understand you ordered some of Task Force 60’s ships to anchor in Piraeus Bay, within sight of shore.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you realize there is intel that indicates something in or near Piraeus could be the target of a terrorist group?”
“Nearly every security briefing I receive includes something about a possible terrorist
act that rarely occurs.”
“Maybe if you attended more than half of your security briefings you’d realize there’s bad stuff happening all over the globe.”
“That’s why you wanted the recorder off, so you could insult me.”
Cole grimaced. “Of course not, Mister President. Between the media, members of the other political party, and heads of state all over the world, there are so many people insulting you, why would I want to pile on?”
Garvin’s face went crimson. He shifted and put his elbows on his chair arms. “Get on with it, Cole.”
“The best intel we have is that an oil tanker may be about to take part in some sort of attack in the Aegean. Think about that for a minute and see if you can guess what target would be the most attractive to a terrorist group.”
Garvin’s expression of disinterest didn’t change when he answered, “Maybe an oil refinery or oil storage facility. A tanker could get pretty damned close to either one of those sites.”
“Yes, that’s a possibility. But I think a U.S. ship would be a much more attractive target.”
“Cole, I am sick and tired of all you hawks scaring the crap out of the American people with your talk about terrorists and possible attacks. Ever since 9-11, you’ve kept the American people on edge with fairy tales about terrorist attacks. Now you talk about attacks on our ships in foreign seas. There isn’t a terrorist group or foreign government with the balls to attack an American vessel. They know damned well what would happen. We would retaliate in a vicious and determined manner.”
“Really? How did we react when the U.S.S. Cole was attacked in Yemen? We didn’t retaliate against anyone or any group over that massacre. What about the beheadings of Americans by IS. We’ve become a joke in the international community and terrorist groups have concluded they have nothing to fear from us. Give me a break, Mister President.” Cole took a deep breath. “But I’m not here to discuss your military and international diplomacy failures.” He watched Garvin’s face go from red to almost purple. When POTUS reached for a glass of water on his desk, his hand shook.
“Here’s the deal,” Cole continued. “We’ve mounted an operation in the Aegean.”
“What do mean?”
“It’s under the authorization granted the CIA by Congress and you. Under the umbrella of Operation Lone Wolf. A DELTA team already boarded a cargo ship which switched electronic identifiers with a tanker. We believe that tanker is about to attack an American asset. We’ve also repositioned the U.S.S. Andrew Jackson from Piraeus Harbor to outside the mouth of the bay. If it is attacked, we want to minimize collateral damage on shore.”
“You’ve countermanded a direct order I gave about that ship’s positioning.”
“That’s right, I did.”
“You’ve gone too far this time, Cole. I’ll have your ass over this.”
“On the contrary, Mister President. It’s your ass that’s in a sling. You take action to change my orders or take action against any of the officers involved in this mission and I will release information to the media that will end your presidency.”
Garvin scoffed. “I’m tired of your threats, Cole. You’re blowing smoke. I’ll—”
“I’ve got Warren Thurston’s hired assassin squirreled away. I also have photographs of you and the head of your protection division in . . . compromising positions. Can you imagine the media frenzy? The President of the United States sleeping with a Secret Service Agent who’s assigned to protect him, and his former Chief of Staff hired an assassin to kill the Director of Central Intelligence. And then that Chief of Staff is killed in a car wreck. What a coincidence.”
Garvin opened his mouth but only gulped air like a beached fish.
“Never in my life did I imagine I would stoop so low as to blackmail a President. But you have become a threat to my beloved country.” Cole paused. “If we prove that an attack is imminent and are able to prevent it, you’ll look like a hero.”
CHAPTER 68
Ahmed Boukali’s hands shook and his knees felt weak. The grand moment was near. He only had a couple things to do before he pulled the trigger. He laughed. “Pulled the trigger,” he murmured. “What an appropriate snippet of American slang.”
He wandered the tanker’s huge deck and gazed out at the lights of dozens and dozens of vessels that moved toward and out of Piraeus Bay. The sea shimmered under the bright light of a nearly full moon. He enjoyed the slow roll of the ship in the gentle seas. He suddenly snatched his smart phone from his shirt pocket to check the time. But he remembered he’d removed the battery. He guessed it was almost midnight. After he turned, he walked toward the ladder to the bridge, climbed up, and found Jalil Fouad alone there.
“Is all well, Jalil?”
Fouad jerked a quick look at Boukali and then returned his gaze to the sea. “Other than the fact I piss blood and the pain is hard to endure, I’m just fine.”
Boukali gave Fouad a sympathetic look. “The last I heard, the target was anchored less than a mile from the city of Piraeus. When do you estimate we’ll spot her?”
Fouad frowned at Boukali for an instant. “We’ll be there at the same time I told you twice before. Eight in the morning. She’ll be easy to see. It will take us another hour to close the distance.”
“Your crew doesn’t suspect anything?”
“Kemal and that little martinet, Feramarz Alizadeh, are the only other people aboard who know what’s up. You’ll need to get my crew off the ship several hours before the attack.”
Boukali turned to look through a side window, his back to the captain. “Of course, Jalil,” he said. “I’ll meet with the crew to explain about our moving from the ship to the tender.”
“You can’t go ashore anywhere near Piraeus.”
“Of course not. That would be very dangerous. The tender will take us outside the bay where a ship will pick us up.”
Boukali looked at the clock on the front bulkhead in the bridge: 0032 hours. “I need to do something,” he said, and left the bridge.
Below decks, he went to Feramarz Alizadeh’s cabin and knocked. He heard the man groan and then the cabin door opened.
“What time is it?” Alizadeh asked as he rubbed his eyes.
“Put your clothes on,” Boukali ordered. “I want to make certain the timer is set correctly.”
Alizadeh gave Boukali a scornful look. “Everything is fine. Stop worrying. When I work on something, it’s always perfect.”
Boukali grabbed a handful of Alizadeh’s pajama top and pulled him toward him. Nose to nose, he rasped, “I’ll throw your ass overboard if you’re not dressed and in the weapons compartment in five minutes.” Then he shoved Alizadeh backward and marched off.
Four minutes later, Alizadeh arrived in the weapons compartment specially built into the ship’s bow, directly in front of the lake of crude oil in the Kerkira’s hold. He panted as though he’d run a marathon. His normally olive complexion was now red; his mahogany-brown eyes wide. Boukali had already turned on the light in the room.
“Check the timer settings,” Boukali ordered. “The frame, too.”
The engineer first checked the timer and then inspected the frame to ensure it was still stable. He climbed onto the frame and crawled around the weapon; searched for cracks in the casing, leaks, and the position of the arm plug.
“All is in good shape,” he announced, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
“Excellent,” Boukali said. “But what’s that over there against the bulkhead?”
Alizadeh whipped around and stepped toward the starboard bulkhead.
Boukali followed the little man, grabbed the back of his neck, and slammed his face against the bulkhead. The clang that Alizadeh’s skull made when it smacked the heavy metal and the blood that poured from the man’s nose and forehead made Boukali smile. He retrieved four sets of handcuffs, a gag, and a rope from a corner of the room and secured one bracelet of each handcuff to the metal frame that supported the nuclear weapon. Then he dragg
ed Alizadeh to the frame and hefted him high enough to clasp one of the open handcuff bracelets to the man’s left wrist. He dropped Alizadeh’s body from his shoulder and smiled again when a groan escaped from the still-unconscious man. After he secured Alizadeh’s other wrist and ankles, he tied the rope around the man’s waist and the frame’s center post.
He admired his handiwork—Alizadeh hung on the weapon frame—and then pulled a cloth from a pants pocket. But instead of stuffing the cloth in Alizadeh’s mouth, he decided to let the man scream his lungs out. No one would hear him. While he waited for the engineer to awake, he went to the timer and made an ever-so-slight adjustment. Then he opened a port on the back side of the weapon and reset the timer on the detonator attached to the high explosives in the device.
Ten minutes later, Alizadeh groaned. His eyes popped open. Blood still dribbled from a gash on his forehead and from his nose. “What . . .?”
Boukali wiped blood from Alizadeh’s eyes. “I want you to see me,” he said.
“Why are—”
Boukali punched the man in the stomach. “Shut up!” He laughed. “You want to know why. Two reasons. First, I want no witnesses. But the real reason is you piss me off.” Boukali threw the bloody gag at the man and laughed as he left the room and slammed the door shut. He replaced the metal chain and padlock that secured the door.
SATURDAY
JUNE 28
CHAPTER 69
Michael slept for a couple hours in a cabin on the U.S.S. Andrew Jackson. He woke at 3 a.m., showered, and dressed in camo gear. He then went to the Intelligence Officer’s station.
“Anything new from that cell phone I took off the cargo ship captain?”
“Nada,” Commander James Ellington said. “The phone used to contact Captain Mustapha has apparently been disabled. We can’t track it. NRO and NSA have nothing. The NRO has tasked additional satellites over this area so there are no blind spots in their coverage.”
