“Good thought, General. There was a command and control platform in one of the containers, but wouldn’t Tankian want to be with the main force?” Harwood said.
“Not if he’s the supporting effort.”
Sassi looked up from the screen that Sergeant Flanigan continued to pinch and expand using his thumb and forefinger.
“Going back exactly thirty days shows hundreds of ships departed Tripoli, obviously, but I added a filter for destination in Cyprus. I figure that is a good place to switch manifests, bills of lading, and to change the proverbial license plate of the ship—help it get lost in the paperwork. I read somewhere that there are hundreds of ships every year that never get to the port they were scheduled to visit.”
The plan came into partial view for Harwood. A ship serving as sort of an aircraft carrier floating in one of the Great Lakes able to strike Chicago, Detroit, Milwaukee, or any of the smaller towns within range. The drones he and Clutch had seen a few nights ago from their recon perch on the Lebanon-Syria border were heavily armed reconnaissance platforms. He began to get a general sketch of the concept. A ship with weaponized drones, a poor man’s aircraft carrier, patrolling the Great Lakes, attacking the major industrial cities of the Midwest. Planners were always looking at New York City, Los Angeles, and Washington, D.C., because of the easy reach and population centers, but this plot seemed to turn those conventions on their heads. Harwood didn’t know much about the waterway from the Saint Lawrence River to Lakes Michigan and Superior, but he knew enough to understand that big ships transited those waters.
“We’re looking for an aircraft carrier,” Harwood said.
“A what?” Cartwright replied.
“I get it,” Clutch chimed in. “A ship. The drones. Mobile platform.”
“That’s right.”
“Now tell us what’s in those cylinders I saw,” Harwood demanded.
Cartwright ran a hand across his face.
“Most of Assad’s chemical stockpiles. Sarin gas, mostly. We tracked it from al-Ghouta after we intercepted some Russian communications about two months ago. The stuff was being moved from Damascus to Latakia when ISIS raided the convoy and stole it. Or so the story goes.”
“The convoy was passing through al-Ghouta,” Harwood said.
“Close enough. We tracked communications to al-Ghouta and lost the bubble. Your entire mission,” Cartwright said, pointing at Harwood and Clutch, “was to find the logistics convoys and watch for transfers to artillery units. These are artillery shells and rockets. The Hunter drone can drop these things or fire them from pods.”
“We know. At least we know they can fire from conventional drones.”
“Since you’re waffling, General, I say we have a C-130 with parachutes meet us at Sawyer. We get the coast guard working out of the bases along Lake Michigan, and we get a sub-hunter plane in the sky.”
“You’re going to jump into Lake Michigan?” Cartwright asked.
“Love it,” Clutch said.
“You’re the general. Get the resources for the trigger pullers. Isn’t that what you guys are always talking about?” Harwood said.
“I know my job,” Cartwright said.
“Then do it. You want Patalino and Ruben hanging around your neck forever? Let’s stop whatever’s happening.”
Cartwright stood, walked to the cockpit, and leaned in. The plane tilted and began to lose altitude. Flanigan sat down at the communications console as Cartwright began to lay out the shopping list Harwood had described.
“You can’t do this alone,” Clutch whispered to Harwood.
“I’m not. If you’re healthy, you’re coming with me.”
“I’m well enough … and I’m in,” Clutch said.
CHAPTER 30
The Port Inland crane operator wasn’t too thrilled to be dragged from his bed to conduct a precarious loading of two containers using a swing crane designed for smaller bulk loads as opposed to heavy containers.
When the second container was loaded, the operator stepped down from the cab and said to Tankian, “That’s five thousand dollars.”
Tankian waved the two truck drivers over and acted as if he were reaching for his wallet. Instead, he pulled his pistol from his waistband and shot the operator first, then one of the truck drivers who was too stunned to run, and then finally winged the other truck driver, who managed to slide under the empty bed of his truck.
Not having the time to pursue the man, Tankian walked past the large limestone domes and conveyors to the berth where the Sieg was docked. The gangplank barely reached the pier. As Tankian scaled the steep incline, the platform bounced beneath his weight. He climbed the ladder to the bridge and stepped inside beyond the two guards who had their weapons aimed at a white man, most likely the captain.
“Jasar Tankian,” he said. “We need to get moving. Why are these men aiming their weapons at you?”
The man didn’t speak for a minute, his eyes darting from Tankian to the two guards. Finally, he nodded and shook Tankian’s hand. “Sam Kinnett. I’m the river pilot. It has been this way since I boarded in Québec. All of this is highly irregular.”
“I know it must seem that way, but all we need to do is head toward Milwaukee and you’ll be fine.”
“I just watched you shoot those three men. It’s four in the morning. We loaded undesignated contraband on the ship. There’s nothing fine about this,” Kinnett said.
“Seeing how you’re the only one who can drive the boat, we’re going to need you to get moving. If you choose not to assist, we can deposit your body out by the others. Or you can do this job and be handsomely rewarded.”
Kinnett swallowed hard, a golf ball rolling down his throat.
“Now, let’s get moving,” Tankian directed.
Kinnett pushed some buttons and turned some dials, and the ship began to nose away from the pier. A single streetlight shone on the pier, the two dead men awkwardly displayed like theater actors in the last scene of a tragedy. Tankian wondered about the man who’d escaped. Should he have taken an extra five minutes to make sure there were no survivors? Operations were always a crapshoot. Do you sacrifice speed and momentum for perfection, or do you capitalize on momentum and move beyond the imperfection?
Once the ship was cruising in the middle of Lake Michigan—more like the Michigan Sea—Tankian walked belowdecks with one of the guards. The man was a fit, military-age male with a shaved head, muscular frame, and AK-47 slung across his black cargo pants and shirt.
“I am Kareem from the al-Ghouta cell. I am the commander of this operation,” the guard said.
“My name is Tankian. Now you are second-in-command.”
“I know who you are. Your men moved us from al-Ghouta to Tripoli so we could board this ship. You can command as long as we accomplish the mission,” Kareem said.
Tankian nodded. “We will.”
When he opened the door to the main hold, Tankian was impressed. Wolff had described to him the extent to which this ship had been retrofitted in the Iranian port of Hormuz. Less than a year to retrofit, Wolff had said.
Tankian understood his mission and had to admit that the series of events that landed him here on this ship had been unique enough to make him consider that, perhaps, this was where he was meant to be.
Spread before him was a cavern nearly three soccer fields long and almost half a field wide. About ten men who appeared almost identical to the guard next to him were arming S-70 Hunter drones on what was nothing other than a flight line. They were parked nose to tail, five on each side, and were every bit exactly like F-35s or F-14s parked on an aircraft carrier. Another five cargo drones were parked along the far outer wall. They were tilt-rotor technology and could carry four combat-equipped men nearly one thousand miles.
On the outside, the vessel had appeared as though it were stacked with containers ten high. On the inside, it was obvious that the façade was a mere ruse, a shell exterior to make way for the aircraft. The bow of the ship began to
lower, metal shrieking against metal. The entire front of the vessel opened like a nutcracker jaw until it was level with the deck of the flight line.
An ingenious design. Tankian smiled. He appreciated innovation, and the entrepreneur in him silently applauded this creation.
“They are testing the launch,” Kareem said.
Tankian nodded. He missed Khoury, his trusted assistant. Khoury would be able to calculate the battle plan. If the original plan was to attack the political convention, he was eager to see what he was supposed to execute.
Four men walked across the floor below their perch, and after considerable hammering and drilling, they had opened the sides of the two containers Tankian had delivered by airplane. They rolled the Mercedes cars out of the way and pushed the Sobirat Gather drones onto the runway, carefully handling the boxes of ammunition. They moved the command and control pod to the far end near the bridge, opposite the bow. In short order, the crew had the platform set up just as Khoury had designed it back in the compound.
Each of the drones had rails beneath its wings that could carry missiles and bombs. Tankian was duly impressed. The first Sobirat drone was ready for takeoff. The operator revved its engine, released its brakes, and launched it through the gaping mouth. Brief applause rippled through the deckhands.
Tankian walked to the bridge and then stepped outside, all under the watchful eye of the guard, who handed him a cell phone. He watched the drone angle and dart like a dove fleeing the hunt.
“For you,” Kareem said.
Tankian took the satellite phone and said, “Yes?”
“Jasar, everything seems to be on schedule. Excellent work. I need to give you the final plan.”
Wolff.
“I’m not sure where we are going or what the mission is,” Tankian said, concealing his fascination with the handiwork of this aircraft carrier.
“We are on a secure line. On my command, you will attack the political convention in Milwaukee. If I get confirmation that my demands from the Americans have been met, you will turn the ship around and let Mr. Kinnett steer it out to sea so we can save it for another day. If we choose to attack, our element of surprise is quickly fading, so we must act now. You have a concept of operations in a tablet that Kareem should be holding for you. I’ll let you choose when to strike based upon the conditions you see. You’re a smart logistician, which makes you an even smarter operator. Between the conventional and unconventional weapons, I want you to cause as much destruction as possible. Comstock is supposed to be in the arena today. It would be good to kill her. If you miss, she might be seen as a martyr, so … don’t miss. She is now connected to this, and I want her entire country to know she invited this chaos upon her United States. Use the reconnaissance drones first, then the attack drones to soften the landing targets, followed by the personnel drones that will deliver the fighters, who have been training for this mission. They’ve rehearsed Milwaukee, so there is some wisdom in letting them attack the targets they have there. The arena will be packed with political people all week.”
“I understand.”
“Plan for Milwaukee—nine a.m. local. My team on board knows their targets. You are their commander. Don’t let me down. Your future depends on success here. Execute on my command.”
Tankian considered his options.
He could run from his past. Defecting to the United States might be a little difficult after he’d already killed four people and become a wanted man. Or he could assist Wolff in executing his nefarious plan and bet that Wolff would make good on the second half of the payment. He had the initial €1 million in the bank, but that was not enough to restart his business or go into exile. It was chump change. With Khoury dead, though, Tankian wouldn’t be splitting anything. So, that was something.
Wolff was reading his mind. “And before you ask, Jasar, I’m prepared to deposit the second million in your account if you are successful. You’ll have enough to rebuild your business, if you want, when you’re done in the next day or two.”
“My business was my life,” Tankian said. “And this Reaper took it from me.”
“An eye for an eye is a reasonable outcome,” Wolff said.
“The only outcome. I’ve come this far,” Tankian said.
“Then go all the way. But accomplish my mission as well. Kareem was the commander. If you want it, it’s yours. He’ll make a good second-in-command.”
“That is my plan.”
Tankian disconnected the call and stared at the black firmament above. Diesel fumes wafted past him, mixed with the fresh smell of lake water. The night was cool but comfortable. The sky was a black sheath dotted with millions of yellow pinpricks.
The Sobirat drone banked in a tight circle, raced well ahead of the ship, and then aimed directly at the bow. It closed the gap quickly and disappeared in the hull, landing, ready for use again.
He closed his eyes and for perhaps the first time in his life felt the thrum of excitement that stemmed from the desire for revenge. Visualizing the Reaper, who had placed him on this ship, he vowed to show the soldier no mercy should they meet again … and he was certain they would.
He returned to the bridge, where the man who called himself Sam Kinnett was staring at the communications console.
A voice was blaring from the speaker, “This is a U.S. Coast Guard vessel. Please identify yourself. I repeat, this is a U.S. Coast Guard vessel. Please identify yourself.”
Tankian turned to Kareem. “Give me four men. Two on the top container with long rifles and two mobile, ready to attack.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The coast guard ship edged closer, its white-and-red paint recognizable in the night.
“This is the United States Coast Guard. We intend to board this ship.”
“Kareem, have Mr. Kinnett tell them it is okay to board. That we have balsa wood going to Chicago. If he says anything else, kill him.”
Kareem smiled slightly and left his side.
The coast guard ship edged even closer. A rope ladder shot out from a cannon and landed near him. Two of the men Kareem had gathered secured it and looked at him. He nodded, and they fastened it to the gunwale. Tankian’s two fighters moved silently to the bow as he stood near the rope ladder. A four-man Coast Guard team was crawling up the ladder below him while two of the Coast Guard crew on the vessel trained long guns on him.
Once the four men were either fully or partially on the rope ladder, one of Tankian’s snipers fired two rounds at the men with long guns on the coast guard ship. Both dropped. The men on the ladder swung wildly as Tankian retrieved his knife and severed the ropes, dumping the men into the lake. As they attempted to climb back onto their ship, the snipers sent them hurtling into the water with deadly accurate fire.
Kareem reappeared by his side, breathing heavily from running and doing the coordination.
“We have rockets, right? Destroy that ship,” Tankian said.
Briefly, a .50-caliber machine gun from the stern of the coast guard ship spun and began spitting lead at them, but Tankian’s snipers quelled that action quickly. Within a minute of Tankian’s giving the order to destroy the coast guard vessel, his snipers had traded their rifles for rocket launchers, and they pummeled the vessel with high-explosive grenades, causing secondary explosions and creating an inferno on the lake.
Tankian watched the ship burn and thought, This will get the Reaper here.
CHAPTER 31
Harwood and Clutch stood outside the Casa 312, its propellers spinning and blowing hot jet fuel vapors against their faces. They were rigged in sport parachutes they’d “borrowed” at 4:00 a.m. from the parachute club at the Air National Guard base in this northeasternmost part of Michigan, where they had landed.
General Cartwright and Sassi stood in a circle with the rigged paratroopers. The airplane’s running lights lit the night as one of the pilots walked down the cargo ramp and shouted, “Gotta go!”
Cartwright put his hand on Harwood’s shoul
der. “A coast guard C-130 electronic warfare aircraft has located twelve ships transiting in Lake Michigan and has been able to contact seven of those, all of which have responded in the affirmative that they’re legit. That leaves five. We’ll get you in the air and vector you to the right one.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Harwood said.
“You sure you’re up for this, Corporal Nolte?” Cartwright asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Cartwright lifted his phone to his ear. “Yes, sir,” the general said.
Harwood looked at Clutch, who shrugged.
A three-star general only called a few people “sir.” Four-star generals, the president, and, maybe, members of Congress.
Senator Nolte, Harwood thought. Clutch must have seen the look on his face, because he shook his head and pointed at the airplane and then swirled his index finger in the universal “let’s get going” symbol.
“Sir, this is an unsecure line, and I cannot discuss this matter at the moment. We have an active situation that requires our full atten— Yes, sir, I know you’re the chair of the Intelligence Committee. I’ve testified before your committee— Yes, sir, I understand what you’re asking, but you of all people should know that I can’t give out that information— Yes, sir, I know what kind of control you have over my career prospects, but frankly, sir, I saw you as being above that kind of veiled threat.”
Cartwright snatched the phone away from his ear and spun around, muttered some expletives, regained his composure, and faced Harwood and Clutch.
“Your old man is a piece of work,” Cartwright said.
“Nah, he’s a pussycat. Just worried about me. Good to know,” Clutch said.
For all his determination, Clutch was a good-natured man. Harwood saw in him an easygoing, relaxed vibe even in the face of imminent threat and danger. He was the perfect spotter or sniper. Ice water in his veins and always ready to go.
“Let’s get on this thing and go find this boat,” Harwood said.
“Ms. Cavezza and I will be in the command and control Black Hawk, acting as a relay for you guys. It’s inbound right now. The coast guard is pushing everything they’ve got into the water from Michigan, Illinois, and Wisconsin. All the metropolitan areas are on notice that the threat level has increased significantly, and we’ve got rush-hour traffic in about two hours,” Cartwright said.
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