"Another pirate attack? They aren't answering our call on the marine band radio." Brian Simonson was standing at the skipper’s right elbow. The young lieutenant, his shirt already wilted and sweat-stained, held a pair of 7x50 binoculars up to his eyes, peering at the steamer. "That'll be the third one this week."
"Maybe," Wilson replied. "Let's move over and take a look. Hey, that's the reason we're out here after all."
Pirate activity in the South China Sea and the Straits of Malacca had never gone out of fashion. It was still a favorite method of making a living for some of the locals. The restricted waters and thousands of tiny islands made this ideal territory in which pirates could operate. The confused and conflicting sovereignty claims helped their cause. China, Vietnam, the Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia, and even tiny Brunei all claimed these waters. On top of that, this route was one of the world's most heavily trafficked sea-lanes. Huge container ships and giant oil tankers threaded their way through the shallow waters on their runs between northern Asia and the Middle East or Europe. They made attractive, slow-moving targets for the modern-day buccaneers, just as they had for their predecessors for centuries.
The piracy had become such a menace that Singapore asked for the United States to send warships to help patrol the area. On this muggy morning, the Higgins had been making an anti-pirate patrol on behalf of the Singapore Navy. It appeared they had happened upon their quarry’s handiwork once again.
Paul Wilson stole a quick glance at the compass repeater.
"Mr. Simonson, come around to one-eight five,” he ordered. “Slow to one-third. Close that coaster to two thousand yards. Get Petranko and his team ready in the RHIB." Simonson acknowledged and turned away. Commander Wilson had a worried frown on his face as he added, "And man battle stations. I want our batteries manned and ready while we have a boat in the water."
"Yes, sir!"
Gunner’s Mate First Class Joe Petranko balanced himself as the rigid-hulled inflatable boat (RHIB) rocked from side to side on the ocean swells. The rust-streaked side of the freighter loomed high above the little RHIB as they drew alongside. Petranko braced himself even tighter. In the ten years that he had led these boarding parties, he had never once fallen into the drink. He didn’t want to break his streak this morning. At least, not before he had breakfast.
For some reason, the stocky, muscular gunner’s mate didn't have a good feeling about this boarding. On the trip across from the Higgins, he kept an eye on the steamer’s deck and bridge. There was no sign of life. The son of a bitch looked like a ghost ship.
He had done dozens of these boardings, almost always without incident. But when they turned bad, they turned really bad. He had the same queasy feeling in his gut before each of them. He felt the familiar gnawing nausea now.
Petranko glanced around at the rest of his team. The six of them had worked together for over a year now. He had trained them and then worked with them, doing interdiction operations in the Gulf in what sometimes turned out to be dicey situations. They were good. Petranko knew he could count on every man. He hoped he wouldn’t have to.
"On your toes, guys,” he growled as they eased alongside the freighter. “I don't like the smell of this. Not one bit."
The short, powerfully built Petranko grabbed a grappling hook tied to the end of a line and tossed it in a high looping arc. It clanged onto the coaster's deck high over his head. He gave it a heavy tug. It didn’t come loose. Good. Must be hooked onto something solid on the first try.
Next, the gunner’s mate checked a round in the chamber of his M-16. Ready. He looked back over his shoulder.
"Cover me guys. I'm going onboard." He spoke into the boom mike that rested at his lips. "CIC, Petranko. Boarding now."
The tiny earpiece crackled a little with static before he heard Captain Wilson's voice.
"Higgins, aye.” There was an ever so slight pause. “Be careful and good luck, Gunner."
Petranko heard the wariness in his skipper’s voice. The old man must be having the same uneasy feelings.
Time to go. He pulled himself up the line hand-over-hand as the other six men in the RHIB kept their eyes on the overhanging lip of the freighter’s deck. Their guns were at the ready. When he reached deck-level, Petranko stopped and then eased up just enough to peek over the gunwale.
This was the most dangerous moment. If someone were waiting to ambush them, his team in the RHIB and the big guns on the Higgins wouldn't protect him a bit when his head popped up for a look-see.
Bracing himself for a burst of gunfire, Petranko edged higher. He looked around. Nobody there. The deck was empty.
“Deck clear. Everybody up!” he spoke quietly into the little boom mike alongside his mouth.
Three more grappling hooks arched up and over the rail. Petranko rolled onto the deck out of their reach and took quick cover behind a king post.
The muzzle of Petranko’s M-16 darted around like a cobra ready to strike as he checked every possible line of fire. It was deathly still. Not even a breeze disturbed the silence. The only sounds he could hear were the beating of his heart, the creaking of the old ship, and the grunts of his team climbing up to the deck from the RHIB.
The rest of the men rolled over the gunwale, onto the deck. They scurried to covering positions, their weapons ready. Still, nothing else moved.
"CIC, Petranko. Team onboard. No one topside," Petranko whispered into the boom mike. "Deploying the teams to search now. Skipper, I got a bad feeling about this. It's way too quiet."
"Roger, Gunner. Be careful. Don't take any chances."
"Aye, sir."
The team fanned out in pairs in a well-rehearsed search of the coaster. Petranko charged up a ladder to the bridge. It was empty. No sign of a struggle or anything violent. Nothing was out of place. It was just empty. The marine band radio, just above the helm, was still turned on.
Petranko searched around, trying to find some clue that would point him to what might have happened here. He found the manifest. Rice and fish. Passengers. All the while, his subconscious was alert for any hint of attack, for any clue that they were stepping into an ambush.
His earpiece crackled and he jumped.
"Gunner, you'd better come down here and see this!"
It was one of his crew.
"Down where?"
"We're in the hold, amidships."
"On my way," Petranko muttered and dashed out of the wheelhouse. He arrived on the main deck just as two of his men slid the cargo hold cover back.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust from the bright tropical sunshine enough for him to see into the dark space. He looked down in horror at the unbelievable scene below. That gave his sense of smell time to react. He stepped back from the cargo hold, the gorge rising into his throat. He fought the almost overwhelming urge to vomit as he tried to breathe again.
There was no mistaking what he had seen down there. At the bottom of the empty hold lay what looked like over fifty human corpses. They were swollen and putrid from the heat. Some of the dead eyes stared up at him, as if begging him for help that was much too late.
Petranko stumbled to the edge of the deck and leaned over the rail. He tried to swallow great gulps of clean salt air to cleanse his senses of the awful scene, the sickening stench. Finally, he managed to harness his heaving stomach and mustered enough strength to speak. He keyed the little boom mike.
"Captain, we found what happened. Someone put what looks like all the crew and passengers in the hold and then machine-gunned them. There're over fifty bodies down there, I estimate. Been several days."
Then, before his message’s receipt could be confirmed, he turned back to lean over the rail and retched.
Gunner Petranko had no more thoughts of breakfast.
Sabul u Nurizam reached out to gently touch the silver-gray device, caressing it with the tips of his long, slender fingers. He might have been examining the nuances of a fine porcelain statuette or some other graceful work of ar
t.
He grunted appreciatively as his fingers stroked the hard, metallic surface. Somehow he had expected it to be warm to the touch. There was no logical reason why it should be. Still, anything containing the awful power this object held should be warm to the touch.
It wasn't. It was cold, solid, dead.
Outside the dilapidated building where he stood, the icy March wind howled in off the Sea of Japan, rattling the windows. Some of it found its way inside in the form of a chilling draft. March, a week before the equinox, the cold wind was to be expected. They were north of the 42nd parallel after all. Najin was the home to the northernmost of the Democratic People’s Republic of North Korea's naval bases. Its climate was decidedly uninviting to Sabul u Nurizam. It was far removed from the perpetual warmth and gentle prevailing winds of his home in the southern Philippines.
The trip, the cold, was worth the sacrifice, the discomfort, if he could obtain what he had come here to bargain for.
A nuclear weapon.
Such a purchase would, at long last, give his Abu Sayuff organization the power it needed to accomplish its sacred goals. With this frightful weapon, if used correctly, he would be able to unite the Muslim population in all of Southeast Asia into one Islamic nation and under one leader. And that leader was Sabul u Nurizam.
He would then successfully lead a qital jihad, a holy war, to free his people from the yoke of Western influence. He would purify their souls in the same nuclear fire that would destroy the infidels.
Nurizam's heart raced as he imagined the glorious triumph that would be his, by the grace of Allah and with the help of his new allies from North Korea.
Colonel Kuang il Chung had no such holy motives as he stood there in the middle of the drafty warehouse, coldly considering the atomic weapon. He watched through slitted eyes like a used car salesman as the Filipino terrorist leader walked around the nuclear torpedo, a customer kicking the tires. The terrorist was interested. That was obvious. Now, if the crazy cleric had the money to buy, there might soon be a deal consummated.
Nurizam bent his tall frame to inspect a nameplate fitted into the side of the weapon. He flicked at it with his long fingernails. The lettering was strange, not a language he could read. He looked up at Chung, the question obvious in his eyes.
"The writing is Russian,” the North Korean said. “It says that the screw next to the label must be turned to the 'armed' position for the weapon to detonate. It is a Soviet-era type 53-68 nuclear submarine torpedo. It has a twenty-kiloton warhead. That will be more than enough for your purposes.” The North Korean colonel anticipated the next question as well. He shrugged his shoulders before the terrorist could ask it. “Some of my Russian friends in Vladivostok were short of funds and had this…this piece of surplus ordnance…lying around."
Nurizam nodded. He continued his careful inspection of the long gray tube as if he could tell the truth about its potency from its cold, steel shell. He looked over at Chung once more.
"Colonel, I must congratulate you on acquiring such a fine weapon. But please tell me. What am I supposed to do with a torpedo?"
"Sabul, my friend," the North Korean answered patiently. "You asked us to find you a nuclear device. My bureau found you a nuclear device. And, I might add, at great danger and expense. What am I to tell my superiors at the State Security Department? Nurizam and his Abu Sayuff do not have the imagination to use a nuclear torpedo?"
The device seemed to have a magnetic attraction to Nurizam. He fondled the smooth metal surface with both hands. His eyes had a far-away, glazed look.
The colonel was wrong. He had the imagination to use this weapon. It was only a matter of devising an infallible method for delivering it to the most effective target. A nuclear torpedo was a bit more difficult to hide than a suicide bomb strapped to some poor martyr on his short trip to paradise.
There were ways. He would find them. Allah would reveal them to him. After all, he was Sabul u Nurizam, the savior of his people.
"We will need more than one, of course," Nurizam stated flatly. "The first one will manage to get the attention of the infidels. The real power is in having another with which to bargain after the devils feel the bite of the first one. Is there a second weapon available, Colonel?"
Colonel Chung’s eyes widened. He rubbed his chin for a few seconds, as if running through an inventory list in his mind of stray nuclear weapons.
"We might be able to locate a second one, but we must deal in cash,” he answered. “The cost for two weapons would be one hundred million U. S. dollars. Half must be paid before the weapons are shipped and half will be due when you have received them. Can your organization afford such a price?"
Nurizam bowed toward the North Korean spymaster and allowed a half smile to soften his thin, gaunt face.
"Those terms are acceptable. It will take a couple of months for us to gather that much cash and arrange for its transfer without the nosey Americans becoming aware of the transactions. They are a bit more attentive to such transactions nowadays, as you can well imagine."
Chung bowed in his direction.
"Then we have a deal. We will hold these weapons for you for two months. After that time, if you have not been able to accumulate the payments, we must offer them to other buyers. I'm sure you understand that we have several other interested parties in Asia and the Middle East who are anxious to bid on these."
Nurizam did not answer. He only nodded absently, confirming he heard the terms of the purchase. He was once again bent over the deadly torpedo, stroking it gently, an odd, chilling smile on his bluish lips. The faraway look was still there in the terrorist’s dark, cold eyes, too.
There must have been a stray tentacle of cold wind that had found its way into the shed. Colonel Kuang il Chung of the North Korean army could not suppress a sudden chill that climbed up the ladder of his spine.
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