Deadly Cargo: A chilling naval terrorism thriller

by Rich Johnson

  “I know. Listen, put your weight hard against these boards. See if they will come loose.”

  Sorgei pushed with his shoulder, but he was slight of build and didn’t have the strength Josh had. The board refused to budge. “I cannot loosen it,” Sorgei sighed after several attempts.

  “Kick it with the bottom of your foot,” Josh said. “Quick, before somebody comes.”

  “Sorgei backed away from the window just enough to allow him to raise his foot and kick with all his strength. The old rusted nails complained with a loud squawk.

  “Good,” Josh said. “Try it again. I’ll pull from this side.”

  Sorgei gave it another kick, and Josh pulled the board free. “That’s enough,” Josh said. “I think I can crawl through this opening. Then we need to pull this board back on, so nobody will notice that it has been removed.”

  “You would make a good Russian criminal,” Sorgei said.

  “I’m not quite sure how to take that,” Josh answered as he scrambled through the opening and with fingers in the cracks between the planks pulled the board hard enough to stick the nails back into their original holes, “but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  “What are you doing here?” Sorgei asked.

  “We’re in trouble,” Josh answered. “I don’t know exactly what your deal is with Husam al Din, but he’s gone off and left us swinging in the breeze.”

  “Do you think he is not coming back?”

  Josh stepped over to the table and sat down. “I suppose that depends. Did you give him what he wanted?”

  “Yes, he has the toxin. I finished its development three days ago.”

  “What toxin?” Josh leaped to his feet. “I thought you were a weapons scientist.”

  “A bioweapons scientist,” Sorgei corrected. “I developed a weapons grade bacteria. His plan is to smuggle himself aboard a shipping container, then release the toxin when he arrives in Miami.”

  “Oh, crap! I thought he was planning to just blow up something at the container terminal, not release a biological weapon into the city.”

  “It won’t be just the city,” Sorgei said. “This toxin is designed to spread across the whole country.”

  Josh moved close to Sorgei, so he could look him directly in the eyes. “Listen man, you must tell me. What is his plan? What kind of toxin is it?”

  “All I know about his plan is that he intends to conceal himself and the toxin in the shipping container. When he arrives at the Port of Miami, he will release the bacteria into the population.”

  “How does it work? How is it spread?”

  “I designed it so that it must have a living host, or it cannot reproduce. If it is inhaled, that person will then serve as the host. The bacteria will live for a few hours inside the host before the host develops a cough that will spread the germ. You would not believe the power of a cough to disperse a disease, and yet this one will appear at first to be nothing more than a cough from a cold.”

  “So, if one guy at the port becomes a host, and he carries it home to his family, and they go to the store or to school or to church, they spread it.”

  “Exactly,” Sorgei said.

  “And before the original victim even knows he’s got something, the disease will have been disseminated to an ever-widening circle of people, who in turn keep spreading it.”

  “That is the design. Before anybody gets sick enough to die and arouse the attention of medical people, the disease will be moving like a wildfire across the country. According to our computer model, within ninety days, ten percent of the population will be infected.”

  “So what happens to the original host?” Josh asked.

  “After two days, he becomes feverish. Two more days and he is deathly ill. The bacteria are designed to break down the cell walls, first in the lungs and then in all the major organs and muscle tissue. As the cell walls break down, fluids leak throughout the body. The victim virtually turns to jelly inside. You have heard of necrotizing faciitis, perhaps – the flesh eating bacteria? This is something like that, but better.”

  “After he’s dead, does the disease keep spreading?”

  “No,” Sorgei said, “when the host dies, within a few hours the bacteria is dead. It cannot live more than four hours in open air, so it is totally dependent upon a living host.”

  “My gosh, man, what were you thinking when you designed such a thing as this?”

  “Nothing.” Sorgei stared at Josh with blank eyes. “That is the worst part of my life. In this business, I had to learn to not think of the consequences. It was just my job.” He blinked, but showed no emotion. “I suppose it is not much different than the pilot of a B-52 dropping bombs from 20,000 feet, totally disconnected from what is happening on the ground.”

  “Yeah,” Josh said barely above a whisper, “I suppose not. It’s an unfortunate world we live in.”

  “That it is,” Sorgei agreed.

  “Do you have any information about how Husam al Din plans to smuggle himself into the container?”

  “No. I have told you everything I know.”

  Josh laid a hand on Sorgei’s shoulder. “Listen, I am not your enemy. The United States is not the enemy of your country.”

  Sorgei interrupted him. “Because of your country, the Soviet Union fell apart and my career was ruined. I hate America.”

  “Think about who is attacking your homeland now. Think about the attack on the theater in Moscow and the University library, and the bus depot and the children’s school. None of that was from America. You and I are fighting the same enemy, and right now we need to be working together, or neither of us will get out of here alive. I overheard men talking outside my room. In a matter of days, as soon as they receive word that Husam al Din’s mission has succeeded, they intend to kill us.”

  A surprised look crossed the Russian’s face. “You know that for sure?”

  “Heard it with my own ears. I don’t think those guys know I speak Arabic, or they’d be more careful what they say.”

  “I am disappointed.” Sorgei shrugged with dejection. “After all the time we spent working together on other projects, now he decides to cheat me out of my money and my life.”

  “Disappointed?” Josh asked. “I think this would go a lot farther than disappointment.”

  “You are not Russian. You have not lived in Siberia. Disappointment is a way of life for me. It is harsh to live as I have lived.”

  “Well, unless you’re ready to die a disappointed man, I suggest that we team up and get out of here.”

  Sorgei thought about that for a moment. “I am a man who is willing to take hold of an opportunity,” he said. “Obviously … or I wouldn’t be here now. I sold myself to the highest bidder.”

  “Then grab onto this opportunity. My people need to know more about this toxin you’ve developed. I don’t have anything to offer, except a chance to save your life. We have to get out of here, and we need to do it together. Two sets of eyes are better than one during an escape.”

  “How do you propose to escape?”

  Josh got up and paced around the room. “I’m working on it. Are you with me?”

  Sorgei reached out a hand and Josh took it. “Okay, I am with you. Let me know what you want me to do.”

  “Just get yourself ready to leave. When I come back tonight, be wearing your best walking shoes and all the clothes you can put on. It’s going to be cold out there. Hide your food in your pockets today.” Josh moved to the window and peered out. Then he removed the board and crawled out through the opening. “Under the cover of darkness will be best. Tonight, during last prayer I’ll be back.” Then he disappeared across the narrow road and behind the tiny house where he was kept as a prisoner.

  Chapter Twelve

  October 11th – Peshawar, Pakistan

  A dusty five-hour drive on dirt roads carved from the barren mountainsides took Husam al Din from the tribal frontier village to the crowded city of Peshawar. He rode in the back seat, shuttle
d by a driver and protected by an armed bodyguard. His only luggage was a medium-sized carry-on duffle bag that held a few changes of clothing and what appeared to be two well-used black metal flashlights rolled up inside his prayer rug. In the space created by a false floor in the bottom of the duffle, he concealed his dagger.

  “At the airport,” the bodyguard said, “you will be watched for. It has been pre-arranged for your carry-on luggage to be inspected and approved by one of our people who is positioned as security.”

  From Peshawar International Airport, it would take two days for Husam al Din to travel by a series of flights, first to Karachi then to Calcutta and on to Singapore before the final jump to Manila. His plan was known within al-Qaeda’s upper echelon, and someone, he knew not who, had taken care of all his travel arrangements, documents and airport security issues.

  After hours of travel, when they came to a halt in the airport parking lot at Peshawar, the driver turned to him. “To minimize the risk of detection, after you pass through security at this airport, you will de-plane into secure areas at each airport along the route. When you get on the ground, do not leave the secure area, or you will have to pass through security again. The less of that, the better.”

  Husam al Din nodded. “I understand. I have brought the Holy Koran to read during layovers, so I will not need to go anywhere.”

  “There will be places to buy food and there will be restrooms within the secure area, so you should have everything you need,” the bodyguard said. Then he reached over the seatback and offered his hand to Husam al Din. “Smile at everyone you see. Be friendly and courteous to all the security people. May Allah lead you.”

  “And you, my brothers,” al Din said. He opened the car door, got out, put a smile on his face and walked into the airport lobby, duffel bag in hand

  October 13th – Manila, Philippines

  A hot October squall swept through Manila, rattling the sky with thunder and lightning, and flooding a few of the bustling city streets to ankle depth. Each leg of the trip had been rough, and Husam al Din was thankful to be on the ground. He did not like flying, he decided. If he were to die, he would rather do it without falling from 30,000 feet. He wanted to be more in control of his final destiny than to be a helpless passenger in an airplane that was being ripped apart by a storm.

  The other thing he did not like was the heat and thick moist air. For the past six years, he had lived high in the cold, arid mountains of Pakistan, and he was not accustomed to the scalding humidity of a tropical island. Soon enough, I will be dead, and this will not matter, he consoled himself with the thought. With the duffel bag strap slung over his shoulder, he drew his last breath of air-conditioned air and stepped through the door that led onto the sidewalk in front of the airport, haled a cab and slid into the back seat. “Hotel Bali,” he said to the driver, and they sped away, melting into the flow of traffic. Three hours later, bathed and fed and having attended to his evening prayer, he left the hotel, determined to see what city life in Manila was all about.

  Even though it was evening, the tropic air was saturated with humidity and he sweat profusely as he made his way through the bustling streets. Dressed in western clothing, his intent was to blend in with the teeming populace. Gone were the black turban and heavy beard. Now, clean-shaven for the first time since he was able to grow hair on his face as a badge of manhood, and wearing blue jeans and a cotton t-shirt, he played the chameleon among people who never suspected his true nature.

  Had anyone been watching him, though, the expression on his face would have revealed the deception, as his first exposure to the bright lights and flashy fashions of the modern city at night left him staring with eyes wide and mouth agape. He was as a child of poverty being exposed to his first Christmas tree surrounded by brightly wrapped gifts and knowing that it was all his for the taking. His eyes flicked from side to side, straining to absorb the color and texture of the clothing, city lights, garish advertising signs, and the rushing vehicles. His ears were unaccustomed to the loud music, the noise of people all seeming to talk at once, and laughter that filled the night air. His head buzzed with the overload of activity and motion and glare of lights against the night sky.

  But more than anything, it was the women that stunned him. Never had he seen so much of a woman’s body exposed to view – bare shoulders and arms, flowing hair and faces made up with cosmetics, and legs all the way above the knees. At first, he tried to look away, but it was too beautiful to resist, and finally he gave in and stared without blinking, afraid of missing something. The scene rocked his senses. At one and the same moment, he was filled with pulse-racing desire and overwhelmed by a wave of holy disgust.

  A short distance from the hotel, he found a grassy park with benches beneath a canopy of trees. In an attempt to calm his racing heart, he sat, closed his eyes and tried to think back to the lessons he learned in the madrassa.

  Out of the darkness, a woman’s voice broke his meditation, “May I sit with you?”

  He opened his eyes and inhaled sharply when he saw the woman’s bare midriff. Catching his breath, he lifted his gaze to her face. Her full red lips parted and turned slowly up at the corners, showing pearl-white teeth through a perfect smile. Her eyes were blue and round, and they seemed to dance from behind a parted veil of blonde hair. “Are you alone?” she asked.

  “I am alone,” he said, his eyes moving down from her face to take in the full image of the beautiful woman who stood before him.

  “Would you like some company?” She smiled and held out her delicate white hand.

  A hot desire swept over him. There was something he wanted to do before he left this life, and he intended to do it tonight. The men in the car when Husam al Din left the madrassa so many years before spoke about this very thing, but there had been no opportunity for him until now. Without stopping, the men had taken him from the madrassa and injected him directly into the most rigid part of Muslim fundamentalist society. It was a culture where boys and girls did not date and fall in love. It was a world where marriage was arranged and women kept themselves covered beneath heavy, shapeless burkas with mesh across the eyes, so no men except husband or immediate family could see them. The women were not to look into the eyes of a man to whom they were not married, and it was forbidden for a woman to be intimate before marriage. Honor killing was the accepted penalty for violation of the law.

  For the men, none of those rules applied. Men were free to enjoy relationships of any nature with as many women as they desired. The only problem was finding women to accommodate them, but that was solved by travel to regions of the world where there were more lenient cultures. It was something Husam al Din had never done.

  “My name is Annette.” Her voice jarred him back from his thoughts.

  He looked again into her eyes, and thought they were more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Like sapphire gemstones, he thought. He took her hand in his and stood up. “I am Stephan,” he lied. “I would enjoy your company tonight.”

  In his lifetime, the only travel Husam al Din had done was for the purpose of warfare training in remote and deserted sites. It was never for pleasure. There had been no women. But today he was away from all that, and he intended to release himself into a part of life that was, up until now, denied him.

  Afterward, he decided, I will return honor to this girl’s family – I will kill her myself.

  ****

  At eight o’clock the next morning, according to the arrangements made by al-Qaeda leaders operating in Islamabad, there was a black Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb across the street from the hotel. Husam al Din had been told what to do. He stepped onto the sidewalk, reached in his pocket, pulled out a gold coin and flashed it in the bright sunlight, then transferred it to the opposite pocket. At this signal, the driver climbed out, pushed a button on the key fob and the trunk lid popped open.

  Glancing both ways to find a break in traffic, he stepped from the curb and crossed the street. “You
have the shipping container ready?” Husam al Din asked in Arabic, skipping any pleasantries of conversation as he stowed his luggage and the trunk lid was closed.

  “It is at the warehouse. We are going there now. Are you ready?”

  “I am,” Husam al Din replied. Then he climbed into the front passenger seat and slammed the door. “I am ready.”

  The Lincoln pulled into traffic and wound its way through the crowded city streets. Husam al Din stared out the window at the seemingly endless wealth of color and commercialism. It made him dizzy, but still he kept his eyes focused out the window, marveling at the garish scenes before him.

  Gradually, the high-rise city gave way to lower buildings, then to poor houses, then to an industrial district. Half an hour after leaving the hotel, they were on the outskirts of town near the waterfront, in a derelict industrial area where warehouses constructed of rusting corrugated steel stretched away in the distance. The driver picked up a two-way radio and spoke to someone. A hundred yards ahead, the giant door on one of the buildings started to slide open, and the Lincoln sped ahead and made the turn into the opening.

  Dry bearings squealed as two men pushed the door shut again on its crusted steel wheels, and everything went dark. Only a dim light glowed from a distant spot that looked like an enormous box, but from the passenger seat of the car Husam al Din could not tell what it was.

  He stepped out of the Lincoln and heard the electric crack of a large power switch being thrown. There was a flicker, then bright bulbs came to life above him, and the warehouse became light.

  “There it is,” the driver said, pointing. Then he shouted, “He’s here. Show him what we’ve got.”

  The door of an RV travel trailer swung open. A woman wearing khaki coveralls and black work shoes stepped out, and Husam al Din stopped in his tracks. In spite of her workmanlike clothing, she wore long, flowing auburn hair and her eyes were like green fire.