He glimpsed his own reflection in a window in the midst of this wild dash. Although sea-washed, his head-to-foot wounds oozed and flowed, covering him in his own blood.
Thank God Jamal had wanted to keep him alive and conscious, otherwise his wounds would be far worse and very likely he’d be dead.
Bullets whizzed past, missing him by inches. They sure wanted him dead now.
Back hunkered down on the port stern steps, Adam grabbed his rebreather from the dinghy hanging in the stern davits. Not a good idea.
Uday, blind with rage at Adam for killing Abu, stormed out onto the stern deck. His AK-47 roared, but his blast was high, missing Adam’s head by inches, but missing. Collecting himself, Uday lowered the muzzle of his AK-47 to zero-in on the center of Adam’s chest. At that instant, Uday’s head vanished in a puff of red mist.
Astonished to be alive, Adam threw himself into the water with his rebreather in one hand and the nuke in the other. Underwater, he put on and activated the rebreather, while the heavy case took him down and down, better than a weight belt.
* * *
Tripnee watched Adam climb the stern steps, unlock his handcuffs, fire the AK-47, and run into Saadet’s cabin. She ceased firing to avoid hitting him. Adam emerged moments later, followed soon by the terrorist. Another easy shot. Except the guy moved erratically, and she missed by a hair. Yikes, the guy got off a blast on Adam. Was he okay? Bam. Her next round vaporized the operative’s noggin. Adam dove off the boat. Hope to God he’s all right.
“Masood’s at the interior controls, starting the engines,” reported Sophia, passing on intel from the two drones still operational aboard the catamaran.
Finally free to let loose with Adam off the boat, Tripnee emptied a ten-round magazine through Saadet’s cabin roof, searching for Masood.
The engines came to life. The power windless cranked up the anchor. The catamaran moved forward, picking up speed.
Tripnee slammed in a fresh clip, and poured rounds into Saadet’s two engines. Her M82 was, after all, not only one of the world’s best long-range anti-personnel sniper rifles, it was also designed to destroy airplanes, vehicles and, yes, boats. Soon, smoke and flames poured out of the hatches over the engines.
But the boat kept moving. Tripnee emptied magazine after magazine, sending a fucking holy hell of lead down onto the bastards. Soon flames poured from every hatch and bullet hole, and an ongoing thunder of detonations ripped giant holes in the boat, blowing away whole sections. Then, when Saadet was about a mile out, a single massive explosion obliterated what was left of the vessel, leaving nothing but bits of floating debris.
Sophia, smiling, looked at Tripnee. “Hell hath no fury like that of Tripnee.”
So, maybe this bitch isn’t so bad. Maybe, Tripnee thought.
It was almost daybreak, and, for an hour as the sun rose, Tripnee searched the area with her powerful scope while Sophia’s drones did likewise. There were no survivors. The entire Saadet crew was dead.
* * *
Back aboard Dream Voyager, as both Tripnee and Sophia treated his wounds, Adam said, “You were both right.”
“About what?”
“That was too dangerous.”
“Well, working together we pulled it off,” Sophia said.
“All that for just one nuke,” Tripnee said.
“One down and twelve to go. Yikes,” Sophia said.
Adam asked, “Any chance we can catch Deniz?”
“A drone-tracker showed Deniz heading in the direction of Syros,” Sophia said.
Chapter 8
Ermoupolis
T he meltemi rose to thirty knots and kept climbing, churning the Aegean into a vast tumultuous landscape of howling waves and airborne foam. Flying a reefed main and half its genoa, Dream Voyager flew along at fourteen knots on a close reach headed westward back toward Syros, following in the wake of Deniz. Sure, multi-hulled sailboats, that is catamarans and trimarans, tended to be lighter, and faster, at least downwind, but they were no good in rough weather like this. For Adam, nothing surpassed the grace, beauty, and smooth motion of a mono-hull. Like a Roman arch, the classic streamlined shape of Dream Voyager steadied by its weighty keel stood up to, embraced, and danced among the untamed elements, among the wild, brutal forces of nature.
“All that Nazi gold,” Tripnee mused.
“No wonder Saadet was so low in the water and sooo slow,” Adam said, as he inspected his raw, painful ankles.
“Enough to direct the course of the future.”
“Especially in the wrong hands.”
“But in the right hands, think of it.”
“Figuring out the ownership of that gold is a problem for the European Union high court,” Sophia said. “Making sure it doesn’t just disappear into the secret bank accounts of corrupt EU or Greek officials won’t be easy.”
“How do we do that?” Adam asked.
“Until we track down those nukes, I say we tell no one and leave the gold right where it is.”
“Enough said.” Adam nodded.
Then, after a pause, Tripnee did likewise.
As the day wore on, despite Dream Voyager’s excellent speed, they picked up no signal from the drone aboard Deniz. Roxanna’s 70-foot yawl was many hours ahead of them and could be anywhere, but finding it was their best hope to track down the other nukes.
Tripnee, head down in the shelter of the dodger at the cockpit table, was once again breaking down, cleaning, and reassembling her M82. Meanwhile, a dozen feet away, Adam and Sophia stood together at the binnacle nav screen looking at a chart of the Cyclades Islands, talking over their options.
“When Deniz sailed out of range of the drone’s signal,” Sophia said, “it was headed straight for Ermoupolis, on the east coast of Syros.”
“But we’re close enough now to Ermoupolis to re-acquire the signal if they were here,” Adam said. “Which probably means they’re not here.”
“Agreed. The thing is, Syros and Ermoupolis are central to the Cyclades and so maybe to the Cyclops gang? This is the best place to lie in wait and pick up their scent.”
“Lying in wait for a while, and having some time for Adam to heal sounds good to me,” Tripnee said.
“Hey,” Adam said, wincing, “my wounds look worse than they are. I’m fine.”
Tripnee rolled her eyes.
“Before long, they’ll resurface right here,” Sophia said. “Trust me.”
As Ermoupolis, the “big city” on the east coast of Syros, drew near, they lowered the main and furled the genoa. Sophia took the wheel, while Tripnee prepared mooring lines. Adam played the invalid, kicking back on the cockpit cushions, taking in the scene. Sophia steered them through the large industrial outer harbor, and then into the historic, sheltered, inner harbor where she performed an expert Med-mooring, backing up to an ancient quay lined with lively tavernas. With the help of people on shore, Tripnee secured their mooring lines to bollards inches from outdoor tables packed with boisterous patrons drinking and dining al fresco.
They took naps. Then, early that evening, in an effort to get Tripnee and Sophia to further bury the hatchet, Adam said, “How about we forget about Deniz this evening? Let’s relax and explore.”
Ermoupolis, it turned out, was a quintessential Greek Mediterranean scene. As the administrative and cultural capital of the Cyclades Islands, the place hummed with vibrant nightlife. The historic quay and surrounding ancient inner city teemed with vacationing Athenians and swarms of travelers from every corner of Europe and the world.
Selecting at random a quaint, outdoor café, Adam, Tripnee, and Sophia sat down at an inviting table festooned with a red-and-white checkered table cloth. The food and drink turned out to be delectable. Wine and talk, and eventually ouzo and laughter, flowed.
“Here’s to the ancient Greeks who founded Ermoupolis,” Adam said, lifting his glass while doing his best to conceal his head-to-toe pain. “They knew what they were doing. Even though the meltemi is raging at thirty k
nots out over the water, here we’re in the lee of a mountain and it’s calm and balmy.”
Smiling, letting their hair down, they drank toast after toast.
“Hey, we survived Saadet.”
“Here’s to your drones.”
“Here’s to your sniper rifle.”
“Speaking of that amazing rifle,” Sophia said to Tripnee, “how’d you get so good?”
“FBI sniper training helped, but I really learned to shoot with my father. He was a Choinumni shaman in California and a very big deal in our tribe. Hunting was our special, private time together,” Tripnee said, smiling with the memory—and no doubt soaring from the booze.
Sophia went silent and distant. Then, wiping a tear from one eye, said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
Adam touched Sophia’s hand. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Sophia wiped away another tear, and smiled weakly. “I love my father more than life.”
With this, the trio grew silent, perhaps with each lost in their own memories.
Later, high from the wine and ouzo, they strolled arm-in-arm through the narrow, marble-paved streets of Ermoupolis.
Nothing like good food and booze for camaraderie. Certainly eases the pain of getting half beaten to death, too, Adam thought.
Back on the quay, they moved along in the steady tidal current of humanity flowing along the waterfront. As they neared their boat, Adam looked ahead through the crowd. A magnificent yawl was backing into the slot next to Dream Voyager.
It was the Deniz. As it backed in, people on its stern were getting ready to throw mooring lines ashore, and a knot of people on the quay gathered to receive them.
Sophia immediately spun around, turning her back to the docking boat.
Suddenly on high alert, Adam scanned the mass of humanity in the vicinity of Deniz. Before him, he realized, sprinkled through the crowd, was a small army of armed men and women. The men were easier to identify with their searching eyes and more obvious bulges under tighter-fitting clothing. The women, their loose flowing clothes better for concealing weapons, were harder to spot–—but their swiveling heads and wary, roving gazes gave them away.
“This place is swarming with Cyclops operatives,” Sophia hissed in an urgent whisper, as she zipped her collar up over her chin and pulled her jacket hood down in an attempt to hide her face. “ISIS, al Qaeda, IRGC. I’ve been tracking these bastards for years. Some might ID me.”
“We’ve got to get you aboard Dream Voyager without them seeing you,” Adam whispered. “I’ve got an idea.”
Ignoring his still painful wounds, with Tripnee following close behind him, Adam stepped through the crowd, outright shouldered one guy aside, and next subtly edged away two more guys who were about to receive Deniz’s starboard mooring line. Then, just as the line was thrown, he grabbed it and bellowed, “Welcome. We’ll help get you moored.”
Following his example, Tripnee grabbed the portside mooring line while yelling, “Welcome. We’ll help. Welcome.”
Their strange, brash, “welcoming” behavior drew all eyes. Virtually everyone, Cyclops operatives and innocent civilians alike, were momentarily flummoxed trying to figure out the intentions of these crazy Americans. Meanwhile, unnoticed on the next boat over, Sophia slipped aboard Dream Voyager and quickly disappeared down the companionway.
Chapter 9
Cyclops: Jihad
“S eek out your enemies relentlessly.” —Qur’an Surah 4:103.
“Believers, make war on the infidels who dwell around you.” —Qur’an Surah 9:121.
“Make war on them until… God’s religion shall reign supreme.” —Qur’an Surah 8:36.
“Slay the idolaters wherever you find them, take them captive, and besiege them” —Qur’an Surah 9:5.
“Fight those who believe not in Allah… until they pay the jizyah with willing submission, and feel themselves subdued.”—Qur’an Surah 9:29.
“Study Surah 9:29. ‘Subdued’ is the key. Nonbelievers must be brought down, made submissive. The only way to do that is to cut off the malignant head and replace it with a caliphate. Notice how this is not a command to fight in self-defense, but an absolute command to attack anyone and everyone who has different beliefs. This famous surah in the Qur’an led to centuries of glorious conquest, and, inshallah, it will inspire many more.” —Cyclops
“The Great Satan, America, and the whole cursed Western infidel world is a morally decayed culture ripe for Islam. Every day without a caliphate is a sin. Besides, Islamic prosperity depends on conquering new lands and converting new Believers at the point of the sword.” —Cyclops
“If you want to change the world, you have to do it through jihad, through the AK-47, through nuclear bombs, through any and all means that Allah, in his infinite wisdom, makes available to us.” —Cyclops
“Jihad is incumbent on all. This is why Islam is greater.” —Ibn Khaldun
“Muhammad called for the subjugation of the entire world.” —Cyclops
Allahu Akbar. God is Greater.
Chapter 10
The Zorba Dance
D eniz was no sooner docked, than slow, inviting mandolin and bouzouki music floated across the quay. Adam and Tripnee moved toward the sound. The already burgeoning crowd on the quay swelled as people poured off boats up and down the shoreline. Measured, smooth Zorba music seemed to intoxicate the no doubt already inebriated mass of humanity. A line formed. Adam and Tripnee, to blend in and observe from the middle of things, let themselves be pulled in. They and a hundred other buzzed souls with hands on their neighbors’ shoulders moved to the delirious music.
For a long time, they moved slowly, so slowly, savoring each lift of the foot, each shift in weight. Gradually—after ten minutes—or was it an hour?—both the sirtaki music and the press of humans gathered speed, until they moved in a blur, hopping and leaping in unison, as though possessed by a mass euphoria.
Were they dancing with Cyclops members? Not exactly. The wary-eyed people with concealed weapons bulging under their clothes were mostly hanging back. Wily and opportunistic, they had spread themselves out through the crowd of onlookers in order to hide in plain sight.
As the night wore on, the more advanced dancers split into two factions and the whole shindig became a sort of dance off. A wild, cavorting competition raged on the floor and on the table tops of the taverna adjacent to Dream Voyager and Deniz. First, one team danced, then moved aside. Next, the other group came forward and stepped things up, raising the ante, pouring it on, escalating the moves, outdoing their brethren, only to be outdone in turn by the opposing dancers. And so, this amazing spectacle of sizzling rhythmic agility went on and on, with neither crew having the slightest intention of letting the other get the best of them.
Eventually, Adam and Tripnee withdrew and descended below deck aboard Dream Voyager. They found their boatmate in the main salon, engaged in drone falconry.
Sophia pointed toward the quay. “There’s a ton of armed terrorists mixed into the crowd out there.”
“No shit,” Tripnee said. “What are we going to do about it?”
“For the moment, nothing,” Sophia said.
“What’s happening aboard Deniz?” Adam asked.
“They’re having one hell of a high-level meeting. Boat captains each with their own fleet.” Sophia tapped the keys of her laptop. “I’ve been recording. Get a load of this.”
As a drone’s-eye-view video of the gathering in the boat next to them came into focus, six people sat around a handsome table.
“Cyclops is too secretive,” said a giant, athletic woman with big shoulders. “Keeps us in the dark.”
“That’s Sahiba Mukadder, captain of The Crescent Moon,” Sophia said.
“Cyclops is a kafir. We’ve got no leadership. We’re not doing anything,” said a tall, dark, thin, bearded man. “We’re soldiers for Allah. Let’s move. Let’s attack in the name of Allah.”
Stopping the tape for a
moment, Sophia said, “The gung-ho guy is Dogu Kubilay, captain of the Bora.”
“Praise Allah, we are in agreement,” said a small, intense, animated woman with huge eyes and a mouth crowded with big teeth. “We can’t wait for Cyclops. We must attack the West now. With everything we have. As hard and as fast as we can. May it please Allah and the Prophet.”
“That’s our old friend and next-door neighbor, Roxanna Tehranni,” Tripnee said.
“Exactly,” agreed Sophia.
“Holy war!” Dogu yelled.
“Allahu Akbar!”
“Cyclops may, or may not, have a master plan, but we cannot sit idle any longer. Inshallah, we must act,” Roxanna said. “So, here’s our plan—”
Dogu blurted out, “Allah gave us brains to innovate, improvise. Make jihad.”
Roxanna continued, “Each of you will get a nuclear bomb and a glorious treasure trove of other weapons and explosives.”
Adam noticed that as Roxanna said this, she glanced at a closet door secured by a heavy padlock.
“We’ve converted the gold into dollars and Euros,” Roxanna continued. “There is money for all. Each of you will get an encoded message detailing your assigned targets. The bigger, faster boats will attack America, the smaller, slower boats will perform glorious deeds in Europe.”
“I trust we will not overlook the west coast of America?” This from Dogu.
“May it please Allah, peace be upon him,” Roxanna said, “the fastest boats of all will sail to the Gulf Coast of America and their crews will travel overland by car and truck to devastate the heartland and the West Coast of the Great Satan.”
Cyclops Conspiracy: An Adam Weldon Thriller Page 5
