Deadly Cargo: A chilling naval terrorism thriller

by Rich Johnson

  Standard issue with every Coast Guard inflatable boat is a set of oars, and Josh swung the oars around, dipped the blades quietly into the water and pushed, allowing him to face forward as he guided the boat silently into the calm river. Jungle trees formed a thick canopy at a height he estimated to be at least sixty feet overhead, and soon he was deep in the black, moonless cavern beneath the ceiling of branches. Ahead, on the left, he spotted the dock. The barge was there, and the container was on the barge. He rowed silently to the side of the container, looked up and saw the serial number he was searching for. With the small inflatable boat tied to the river side of the barge, he figured he was shielded from view of anyone ashore. But the bright view of the landscape through the night vision scope revealed no one anywhere around.

  Very slowly, he pressed down on the edge of the barge with his hands and eased the weight of his body onto the floating platform to prevent it from reacting abruptly to his climbing aboard. He shielded himself along the container’s end wall until he could see around the corner and scan the full length of the dock. Cardboard boxes and plastic totes were scattered and a mattress lay half on the barge and half on the dock. Blankets were piled as if they had been thrown without care of where they landed. Amid the junk strewn on the dock, Josh saw something that took his breath. Sprawled along the wooden platform were the bodies of four men. It looked as if they had fallen clumsily, with legs and arms in awkward positions, as though they had died on their feet and dropped suddenly.

  “Whoa,” he whispered.

  He drew his 9mm short-barreled Glock 26 from the pocket of the hazmat suit, stepped onto the dock and walked toward the bodies. Even in the darkness, the night vision scope gave him a daylight view of the scene. He bent over the first man he came to, and jumped away as maggots flooded out of the mouth of the corpse. The dead man’s blotchy black flesh was a mass of large red boils oozing dark yellow pus.

  In the man’s hand was a metal flashlight, and Josh pocketed his pistol then pried the flashlight from the man’s stiff fingers. His rubber gloves picked up a smear of pus as he thumbed the switch and noted that the light did not turn on. He rolled it over, examining both ends, and noticed a pattern of holes in the bottom cap. Something about this is not right. This isn’t the real thing. Then it dawned on him. This is the delivery mechanism. He set the flashlight on the dock, standing upright so it would be easy for the forensic hazmat team to see when they arrived.

  He moved along the dock from body to body, and found each of the men in the same condition. At the far end of the container, he saw that the doors were open and the trailer was halfway out, hanging at an angle with the wheels still inside the container and the tongue jammed down onto the barge platform. He stepped around to the side of the trailer and saw another dead body just inside the open door.

  Josh shoved the dead body out of the way and climbed into the trailer. The chaos inside revealed nothing of the missing terrorist. He was not there. None of the men he had seen so far was Husam al Din. So where was he?

  Back on the dock, Josh walked toward a break in the trees that he saw ahead. The trail led onto a bright moonlit clearing where there were two small shacks. He pushed open the door to the first and inspected the interior. Nobody. The second hut held the bodies of three men, each shot once in the head. Beyond the second shack stood a larger building with a single window. It was dark inside. Josh moved cautiously across the clearing toward the building, but suddenly drew to a stop. There on the beach grass lay the body of another man, and closer inspection showed that this one had been shot in the chest. Nine, so far, four dead of gunshots and all the others from something else. And no Husam al Din.

  He approached the main building with gun drawn, the night vision scope showing the way. The door was open, and he went in. From room to room he searched, but found no one else. What happened here? He pondered the question on his way back to the dock, but couldn’t come up with an answer that seemed to fill all the empty spots in the puzzle. Pirates, loot, greed. Grabbing for guns. All that I can understand, but that only accounts for four dead. What about the others? And where is Husam al Din?

  Twenty minutes after his arrival, Josh was finished. He untied the Zodiac, pushed away from the dock and motored out of the river. He pressed the handheld VHF radio to his mouth and contacted the ship.

  “I’m coming in. Have the decontamination team ready to hose me and the boat while I stand off from the ship. Then I’ll strip down, leave everything in the Zodiac and swim to the ship. I’ll need to be decontaminated again before I board, just in case I touch anything while trying to get out of the boat. Have a crewman ready to burn the Zodiac and everything in it.”

  “Aye, sir. We’re ready for you,” came the reply.

  Forty minutes later, light was just beginning to show over the horizon when Josh stepped out of the hazmat suit and jumped overboard. A team in a second Zodiac stood by with a can of gasoline that they threw into the boat Josh used, then set it ablaze. As Josh trod water below the boarding ladder, the decontamination team hosed him with antibiotic solution; then he climbed aboard and took a shower.

  The skipper met Josh as he stepped out of the shower. “Damn lot of precautions you’re taking, mister.”

  As he toweled dry, Josh cut to the chase. “We need to secure this area. Until the hazmat team arrives, nobody goes to that island, I don’t care who they are or what country they’re from. And I suggest we back off a few miles and stay upwind.”

  “The old man was right about you,” the skipper said. “You act like you run this show.”

  “As a matter of fact, right now, I’ve got to place a satellite call to Captain Pfister, the old man, as you call him.”

  “He isn’t going to like hearing a phone ring this early,” the skipper warned.

  Josh smiled. “It’s okay, I’m already on his crap list.”

  From the foredeck, Josh placed the call. When he heard Pfister’s voice, he said as cheerfully as he could, “Good afternoon, captain. How has your day been going so far?”

  “Afternoon? It’s zero five thirty. Is that you Adams?” Pfister’s voice was rough and carried no hint of humor.

  “Indeed it is, sir. I need a favor.”

  “You need a court martial.”

  “I’m a civilian, remember?”

  “Then you need to be keel-hauled.”

  “You sound in fine spirits, sir. But what I really need is to make contact with the owner of Borboleta.”

  “Why?”

  “Just covering all the leads. He took the call from the family that was held by the pirates on San Luis Miguel. Then he relayed the information to the Coast Guard. I’m betting he knows more than he reported, and I need to know everything he can tell me.”

  “Your target went missing?”

  “Yes, sir. The situation here is ugly with a capital U, and my man is nowhere to be found. That means he’s still out there, and I want to talk with the man whose family was being held on the island. The owner of Borboleta is my first step to finding them.”

  “All right, let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back when I have something.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Josh ended the call and dialed again.

  “This is Curt.” The voice sounded more awake than Pfister had, but not by much.

  “Curt. Josh here.”

  “What have you found?”

  “Found the container on the island of San Luis Miguel, about 370 miles north of Panama. The box had been salvaged, hauled ashore on a barge, and opened.”

  “Was Husam al Din there?”

  “No. But I found nine dead. Four shot to death, and the rest died of something bad that had nothing to do with bullets. We need a forensic hazmat team on the ground right away, and a bio weapons tech to try to figure this thing out.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I need an official thank-you card sent to Captain Pfister at Station Panama. He’s been a huge help, but he’s feeling a little pinch in the e
go department right now. He’s not used to non-brass button types taking charge of anything. Maybe you could have the president sign the card.”

  “Is that all?”

  “How’s Susan?”

  “She’s out of the woods. In fact, she’ll be on a flight home this afternoon.”

  “Tell her I said hi.”

  “Hi? That’s all?”

  “That’ll do for now. I’ll tell her the rest myself later.”

  Thirty minutes later, the satellite phone rang and Josh set his cup of tea aside and answered. “Mr Adams,” – the voice sounded businesslike – “I have the information you requested.”

  “Ah, Captain Pfister. I’ve been thinking of you.”

  “No wonder my bowels have been running.”

  “Great sense of humor, sir.”

  “You can reach the owner of Borboleta, a fellow named Nigel Marsh, at the number I’m about to give you. It’s a hotel in Colon, where he’s staying while having some bottom work done.”

  Josh copied the number on a slip of paper, thanked the captain and disconnected the call. Immediately, he dialed the hotel and connected to the room of Nigel Marsh, forgetting the early hour. A sleepy voice answered, “Alo?”

  “Mr Marsh?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “My name is Josh Adams. I work with the American government, and I’m trying to follow up on an incident involving a sailboat that was taken by pirates on the island of San Luis Miguel.”

  “Ah, yes,” – the voice sounded more awake – “Pity the filthy dishwater those folks got themselves into. How are they doing?”

  “Actually, I’m hoping you can tell me a bit more about them. We’re trying to track them down so we can find out how they’re doing.”

  “Mighty nice of you, if I do say so. You Yanks are good to your own. So, how can I help you?”

  “Start at the very beginning. Tell me every word that was said.”

  “Okay, well, let me see. It’s early, you know, and my brain isn’t fully engaged quite yet, but I’ll give it my best. Okay, let me see, I got the call on the VHF, channel sixteen it was, and this chap named Dan Plover wanted to know if I had a single sideband and could contact the Coast Guard in Panama. I told him I did and I could and I would.”

  “Dan Plover? Did he mention the names of anybody else on board?”

  “Said his wife was Nicole and they had two kids, Jacob and Cadee, ages 17 and 11 respectively.”

  “Did he say where they were from? Their home port?”

  “Yes, he did. Said they were from Seattle. Boat name is Whisper, and it’s a 34-foot cruising catamaran, a Gemini 105Mc, if I remember right.”

  “Where were they heading?’

  “Said they wanted to go to the Rio Dulce. Well, I said, that’s a nice area. I had just come from there myself, and I told them all about it. But they were anxious that I report the piracy incident to the Coast Guard.”

  “Did they tell you any details about the island?”

  “Actually, yes, they did.” And he related the story to Josh. Besides the barge, he added, there was a very fast looking red and black boat with a pair of big outboard motors at the dock.

  Red and black boat? It wasn’t there this morning.

  “Did Mr Plover tell you how many men were on the island?”

  “He did indeed. Said there were ten, including de la Vega himself.”

  “Ten,” Josh repeated.

  “Yeah, that’s what he told me. Ten.”

  “Did they open the container?”

  “Not while the Plovers were there. Oh, it sounded like a horrible plight they were in.”

  “But they never saw the container opened?”

  “No, sir. They got out of there as fast as they could and counted themselves happy to leave the container behind, no matter what was in it.”

  Josh had what he needed. “Well, Nigel, I want to thank you for your help. Good luck on your voyage.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome. When you see the Plovers, will you tell them that I did as they asked me to? And give them my best.”

  “I’ll do that. Goodbye.” Josh disconnected the call, sat back and looked at the notes he had been furiously scratching. Then he dialed Curt Delamo again.

  “I need one more thing.”

  “Sure,” Curt answered, “what is it?”

  “I need all the intel I can get on a Dan Plover. Wife’s name is Nicole. Two children, Jacob and Cadee. They live someplace in Seattle, and they’re sailing a Gemini 105Mc catamaran named Whisper. I need to know everything I can about them and their boat.”

  “I’ll go to work on it. Do you think you’ve got a lead?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Anything on the hazmat team yet? I’ve been on the island and can brief them about what they’re going to find in the way of body count, structures and the general layout of things. I think I located the delivery mechanism. It’s a bogus flashlight. I left it on the dock where the team can see it when they arrive.”

  “Good,” Curt said. “I’ll alert them.”

  “Tell them that the toxin isn’t working exactly the way Groschenko planned. Might be the hot tropic temperatures have altered the bacterial activity or something. But the dead bodies on the island died real fast, not the lingering illness we’ve been led to believe. Tell the team to be ready for something real grotesque.”

  Curt groaned. “Well, if the toxin has altered in that way, it might have changed in other ways, too. Like maybe it won’t die off when there’s no live host.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. McCarthy’s the best biotoxin man we have. Let him know what we’re thinking and that he’s going to have to be looking for mutations, or at least altered states from what we originally thought.”

  “Will do.”

  “By the way, there’s apparently one more body that I didn’t see. It’s on the other side of the island from where I landed. Seems Nicole planted a hot kiss down the windpipe of the chief pirate with a 12-gauge flare.”

  “Good for her!”

  “One other thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you think you can arrange for an image satellite to search for a boat?”

  “Can do. What’s the target?”

  “A red and black runabout powered by a couple of large outboards. It was at the island when the Plovers were there, but it was gone when I went ashore this morning. If Husam al Din made it off the island on that boat, he might have another delivery device with him. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  Chapter Forty

  The sun was high when Husam al Din opened his eyes, and his hand fell instantly to the duffel bag. He rose and stepped into the cockpit, looking east toward the sun. It was late, but even a late prayer was better than he had been able to do for the past couple of weeks. Jacob was at the helm. “Your father trusts you to guide the boat?”

  Jacob looked at Husam al Din with dark, angry eyes then turned to look forward and did not answer.

  “Ah, I see. You are a defiant one.”

  Jacob grabbed the binocular, stepped out of the captain’s chair and walked forward to the bow, then proceeded to scan the horizon ahead. Husam al Din followed, and Jacob reacted. “Stay away from me,” he growled without a hint of fear in his voice.

  “Your father would order you to your death. And you would follow that order?”

  Jacob turned to face the bearded man, and spit his anger. “My father would die before allowing any harm to come to us. And, yes, if he couldn’t protect us, he would have my sister and me deny you the pleasure of having us for yourself. It’s called courage, mister. Something you probably know nothing about. You’re just a slimy, no-good drug-dealer, kidnapper and murderer.”

  “You are wrong. I am a man on a mission of mercy, to save my people from a corrupt infidel nation.”

  “Yeah, well if you’re on a mission of mercy, why did you hold a knife to my mom’s throat?”

  “I am a desperate man, and I will do whatever it takes to
accomplish my mission.”

  “Well, you just stay away from me, or I’ll go overboard. I’ll die before I’ll let your filthy hands touch me. And that will reduce your power over my father.”

  “You have a strong spirit,” Husam al Din said with a note of admiration in his words. “Too bad you are a kafir. Now, I need a place to pray and I want to be alone.” He reached into the bag and pulled out his prayer rug and laid it flat, facing east, on the wide deck. He placed the dagger across the top edge, then stood erect with his head bowed and began the Salaat.

  “Perfect,” Jacob retorted, and he turned away from his captor and followed the narrow side deck along the port rail back to the cockpit. “You just stay right here and be alone all you want.”

  Dan and Nicole were coming out of the cabin when Jacob stepped down into the cockpit. “Dad,” Jacob whispered, “can’t we do something?”

  “What are your thoughts?” Nicole asked. Jacob, at 17, was nearly a man, and had a good head for problem solving.

  “We could activate the DSC piracy message on the radio.”

  “A good idea, son,” Dan whispered. “But the VHF is good for only about twenty-five miles. We’d have to hope for another DSC equipped boat to relay the message to the Coast Guard. The thing I’m afraid of is a reply coming in over the radio. It would let that guy,” – he nodded toward the front of the boat – “know that we’ve called in the posse. No telling what he will do if he feels threatened.”

  “How about the EPIRB,” Jacob suggested. “It’s quiet. No voice reply to let him know we’ve activated it, and eventually somebody will show up to rescue us.”

  “I wonder what he would do if a plane suddenly started circling overhead, or a rescue boat pulled up next to us?” Nicole asked. “What did he say to you, up there on the bow?”

  “Said he was a desperate man on a mission of mercy to save his people from an infidel nation.”