America jtf-2

by David E. Meadows

  “Don’t you hate it when she has these silent arguments that she settles this way?”

  The Senior Chief leaned between the two pilots and pointed left about ten degrees off their heading. “I’ve got distant smoke,” he said.

  Early and Kelly looked. After several seconds, a faint but discernible white smoke rising from a funnel or funnels broke the horizon.

  The Senior Chief used to be a Boatswain Mate before changing his rating to aviation technician. There weren’t many AT’s who were flight engineers, and he knew it. Of course, there weren’t many sailors who recalled or knew how to report visual lookouts at sea. Distant smoke always was the first indicator of a ship in your vicinity. The horizon was approximately fifteen nautical miles from a surface position. It was a little higher at one hundred feet altitude. Distant smoke was a ship-lookout term to report a contact just over the horizon. The next to appear were masts, and when you saw them from sea level, you knew the two of you had fifteen nautical miles of separation. Then came the funnels and superstructure, followed shortly by the complete distant view. Another critical thing he’d learned as a young seaman during his deck plate life aboard the Destroyer Stribling DD-64 was that when you saw a contact growing bigger and it remained on a contact bearing, then you were going to collide with it. “Constant bearing, decreasing range,” or “CBDR,” was the term to describe this relative phenomenon.

  Early turned the aircraft slightly, bringing the nose to bear on the visual contact. “Win, we’ve a visual on the merchant contact.” She looked at the compass on the flight console. “We’re steady on course two-four-zero.”

  “I hold us on two-four-two, ma’am,” Forrester added.

  “Thanks, make that two-four-two.”

  “I bet he folds his underwear after he washes them,” Kelly offered.

  “And why wouldn’t he?” Early asked, perplexed at the comment. Her eyes remained fixed on the contact on the horizon. Visual contact at this range was tenuous. If she broke eye contact for more than a second, she could lose it for several minutes.

  “He’s single!” Kelly said as if that explained everything.

  Twenty minutes later, the complete ship was visible.

  “Win, this is Maureen; we’ll do the same as before. Make a starboard pass, turn across its bow, and then pass down along its port side. You pass this contact to Spruance for further transmission?”

  “Nope. We got that one transmission off, then lost contact. We’ll keep trying, but we haven’t had radio contact since we issued that contact update on the car smuggler. But I have everything on a file. Once we regain communications, we’ll transmit the second update telling them it’s a car smuggler, then we can sit back and watch the Coasties go eat them some crooks.”

  * * *

  Tamursheki pushed Dr. Ibrahim, causing him to stumble against the table. “Everyone is ready for when we reach America,” he snarled. “Abu Alhaul insisted that you make sure we are healthy for the land of heretics. I have men leaning over the rails, throwing their food into the ocean. They are dying instead, and when they come here for help, you give them some trash about motion, old man. If they are sick now, they will be sick later.”

  Dr. Ibrahim pushed himself upright off the table where he had caught himself. He straightened his bifocals. He shook himself as if straightening his clothes, and with tight lips, the square-bodied Palestinian leaned forward, his face only inches from the lean, angry Tamursheki. “Let’s get one thing straight, young man. I’m the doctor.” He poked himself in the chest to emphasize his words. “I’m the only one on this death trap who knows what has to be done.”

  Tamursheki turned his head and spit in disgust. “And I am the one who is in charge.” He turned, walked across the small wardroom compartment, and flopped down on a tattered sofa that was bracketed to a spotted bulkhead where paint from long ago had flaked off. “I am going to send them down again. You give them medicine or a shot or whatever to make them feel better.”

  Captain Aswad Abu Alrajool leaned back in his chair and laughed. “You are both fools,” he said, looking at Ibrahim. When he turned his gaze toward Tamursheki, the laughter stopped. “But I’m sure you both believe very strongly in what you do,” he said, licking lips that moments ago were moist with humor.

  “I would be careful, Captain,” Tamursheki said, his voice threatening.

  “Yeah,” Ibrahim added, looking at the Jihadist leader. “I would be careful, too, Captain, for this man — this youngster who is still wet behind the ears — may decide you don’t know your job either.”

  Tamursheki leaned forward and put both hands on his knees. “As Allah wills, so shall I do.”

  Ibrahim laughed. “You don’t scare me, Tamursheki. You need me, and even when you have finished your mission, I am the only one who can ensure the other is completed.” Ibrahim walked around the end of the table, behind the Captain, to the other side, putting the table between him and the fanatic. If Allah, God, or Yahweh, or whatever anyone calls their God, really existed, he wouldn’t allow assholes like Tamursheki to be a member of his flock.”

  “We will reach the coast of America within the next few days.”

  Captain Alrajool shrugged. “That is true, but we don’t know our final destination yet. Abu Alhaul told me to expect final instructions when we near the coast.”

  “Blessed be his name,” said the Jihadist.

  Ibrahim angrily shoved papers and charts across the table, some falling onto the carpeted deck. “And that is why, my angry friend, I cannot complete my medical duties. How do I know when to check the medical health of your men when your leader hasn’t even told you the destination of this weapon? There will be shots to give to protect you from the diseases of America. Do you want your men or even you to catch AIDS? You’ve seen what it has done to Africa.”

  “There is no cure for this disease,” Tamursheki said arrogantly.

  “Abu Alhaul believes I can help protect you from this disease and anything else that may stop you from completing your mission, which is…?”

  Tamursheki’s eyes narrowed for a moment before his face relaxed. He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table, leaning across toward Ibrahim. “We are to activate the device on the ship and then work our way to various American cities to await other missions. That is why you are along. We may be there years before we are called to do our duty.”

  “Glad you know what you’re supposed to do,” Captain Alrajool said. “What I need is a port where I can transfer this van. You want to activate it! I want to get it off my ship before it blows. Just remember that Abu Alhaul wants a seventy-two-hour setting on it. Less than that, and my beloved freighter could be dust.”

  Thinking of the large ticking van strapped to the stern deck, Tamursheki nodded. “It matters little where the destination is. What matters is that we martyrs are in good health and prepared to cross into paradise.”

  Captain Alrajool grinned. “You want paradise, then you have to go to Cocoa Beach, Florida. I went there once to see the rockets lift off from Cape Canaveral. My friend and I visited many of the dance places to discover that the women — no, young girls — dance completely nude. Without any clothes. They would change your dollars into single dollar bills—”

  “That is enough, Captain,” Tamursheki warned. “Your words are obscene to the word of Allah.”

  Ibrahim turned to the forward-most porthole in the compartment, leaned against the opening, and muttered, “That’s really great. Bars in Cocoa Beach, Florida, are an obscenity to a prophet who married a five-year old girl.” He turned back around, his finger pointing at the Jihadist. He started to say something, stopped, shook his head, and sighed. Where do they find these young men and women who want nothing more than to grow into young adulthood so they can rush off to kill themselves in some sort of macabre religious fever? Seventy virgins? Who do they think are going to get the seventy virgins? Martyrs or Marines?

  “Something bothering you, Doctor?”

&
nbsp; He ran his tongue across his upper lip, his thoughts on a bottle of whiskey, third drawer down, in his desk in the clinic, hidden under a bunch of papers. With this bunch, he wasn’t so much worried they’d drink than they’d destroy it.

  “I said, Doctor,” Tamursheki said firmly. “Is there something bothering you?”

  Ibrahim shook his head.

  “Good. Then what do we do?”

  “You asking me?”

  “Of course, Doctor. You’re the one who must see to the welfare of my warriors. Regardless of where Abu Alhaul orders us to go, the men must be in the very best of health to accomplish their mission. Today, most are shaving their body hair.”

  “That’s a thought I can do without,” the Captain added.

  “They are preparing themselves for the final battle.”

  Ibrahim pulled out a chair, swung it around, and straddled it. His chin level with the back top, he leaned forward. “What I will do is start the shots today. It will take a few days for the medicine to work.”

  “What does this medicine do?” Tamursheki asked.

  “Didn’t Abu Alhaul tell you?”

  Tamursheki shook his head. “No, he said that you would ensure we were in the best of health to take the battle to those who have offended Allah. He said the days at sea would take its toll on his warriors, and that is why you are here. But, in the ten days we have been at sea, you have yet to see one of my men.”

  Ibrahim shook his head. “Not true. I have been seeing Fakhiri nearly every day.”

  “Now, there’s a man with a stomach for the sea,” Captain Alrajool added sarcastically. “He has seen more of the side of the ship than anyone else on board.”

  “He hasn’t been the only one, as our dear friend Said Tamursheki has pointed out. The truth is, he is the only one who has come to see me.” Ibrahim looked over his glasses at Tamursheki. “Instead of telling me how I have failed to take care of your martyrs, tell them to come see me when they’re feeling bad. For Fakhiri, I gave him pills to control the nausea. He’s getting where he can keep some soup down.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Doctor,” Tamursheki admitted. “He was rotund and cheerful in the ways of the Koran when we started. Today, he looks as if he hasn’t eaten in months. He is growing gaunt and irritable.”

  “He is growing thinner, which is a good thing for a man his age. If you can’t keep the fat off now while young, imagine how it will be when you reach my age and discover that you and your fat have grown quite fond of each other. He will get over it when we reach our destination and he puts his feet back on solid earth.”

  Tamursheki disappeared below the edge of the table, kneeling on the discolored carpet to pick up the papers Ibrahim had brushed onto the deck. “We must go over the plan again.”

  Both men groaned.

  “I think we know it by heart by now,” Alrajool objected.

  “Let’s do it another time.”

  Tamursheki pulled a bulging folder to him and untied the black cord keeping the opening closed. He pulled out a bunch of tickets. “I will send Fakhiri with the first group. His heaving and vomiting is causing concern with the others. They believe it is a sign of failure — a sign of weakness. Give him the medicine to protect us in America.”

  Alrajool laughed. “It’s a sign of weakness — a weak stomach for the rocking and rolling, up and down, sideways to sideways, that a ship at sea endures minute by minute, hour by hour, continuously through the day; through the voyage. Even tied to a pier tides reach out to keep the movement going, as if to remind those who go to sea that the seas are the masters of the world. Complicating this normal rhythm at sea is the fact that a weather warning has been issued for this part of the Atlantic. Right now, we are running in front of a tropical storm that will give birth to a hurricane.”

  Tamursheki ignored the Captain’s comment as he shuffled through the papers. Ibrahim recognized the bundle as the various airline, train, and bus tickets purchased in Mobile, Alabama, by one of Abu Alhaul’s operatives. Federal Express had delivered the tickets to Tamursheki, and he had brought them to the ship. He figured since the tickets were to various destinations within the United States, once the men were ashore they would split up and head to wherever their ticket took them. He was glad that he had the highest honor for this job. Once the last martyr departed the ship, Tamursheki would set the timer on the device. He would ride with the ship into the harbor, and while they offloaded the device, he would disappear into the vast wilderness of America with his ticket.

  “There,” Tamursheki said, holding aloft four tickets. “Badr will lead the first group ashore and to the nearest city, where they will disperse to their assigned cities and locations. Fakhiri will go with him. His departure will relieve some of the tension from the others. Hisham, who has relatives in Chicago and has prayed to Allah to be in the first group; and, Jabir, the cook who has been told to take a job with one of America’s fast-food places so he can be in place when the order to martyr himself comes.”

  Ibrahim stood up, glancing over at Captain Alrajool. “You need to find out where our final destination is going to be. Once this fool and the others are off the ship, then we have our own job to do, and that doesn’t include killing ourselves for some—”

  He saw Tamursheki’s head whip around and realized he might be pushing the envelope. “—thing we haven’t been told to do.” He stared at Tamursheki, who with an unwavering stare narrowed his eyes at Ibrahim. For that fraction of a moment, Ibrahim saw the fate this man desired for him. For Tamursheki, the fanatic, death was an honor to share with others. Ibrahim had little doubt the man would consider killing him before the terrorist left the ship. He nearly grinned when he thought to himself that this lean, angry religious nutter had to receive the same medicine as the others. Abu Alhaul wouldn’t be happy if Tamursheki did anything to him while the ship remained in transit. Come to think of it, Ibrahim wouldn’t be happy either.

  The door to the compartment burst open. Qasim, the huge Iraqi Shiite bodyguard and enforcer, blocked the doorway. “My friend,” Qasim said, his deep bass voice filling the wardroom. He held the door open with one massive hand on the doorknob while the other held down the edges of his beard. “There is an aircraft approaching.”

  “Quick, get the men out of sight and off the deck!”

  “Yes, Said. I have already ordered it done.”

  Tamursheki pushed against Qasim’s chest. The Shiite stepped back into the passageway, opening just enough space in the hatchway for Tamursheki to run out.

  “Come on!” Tamursheki shouted at Qasim as he sped toward the ladder at the end of the passageway.

  Qasim followed. Captain Alrajool was only a few steps behind them. Tamursheki took the ladder two rungs at a time, heading up to the bridge. Alrajool’s anxiety grew as Qasim blocked the ladder with his slower pace. The hatch leading to the bridge swung shut behind Tamursheki as Qasim reached the top.

  Captain Alrajool pushed past the huge Shiite to rush to the starboard bridge wing just as the gigantic P-3C reconnaissance aircraft filled his vision. Tamursheki stood to his right, watching the American aircraft pass down the side of the ship. From the cockpit, he saw the pilot’s head turned toward him. The sun visor on the helmet was down, blocking the pilot’s face. Tamursheki’s eyes traveled along the white fuselage to the two small windows near the exit door located about ten feet from the edge of the wing. The flash of a camera from the forward window drew his attention. Filling it was what appeared to be a giant lens.

  He shut his eyes and lowered his head. They’ve found us. So much planning. He turned to Qasim, who stood just inside the door to the bridge wing. “Run! Get the missile!” he shouted, motioning frantically at the man.

  The aircraft passed the bow of the ship and continued on its current course. It must turn around, Tamursheki prayed. It must turn around.

  “Come to course zero-zero-zero!” Captain Alrajool said, poking his head inside the bridge. “Keep your speed twelve knots.”
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  As if hearing Tamursheki’s command, two Jihadists emerged out of the starboard side of the forecastle, onto the deck immediately below the bridge wing. He shouted, “Get up here! Now!”

  The two men scrambled up the outside ladder leading to the signal bridge above the bridge wing. Ahead of the ship, the P-3C turned left, crossing the bow of the merchant vessel five miles ahead of it. The American aircraft steadied upon a return course that would carry it down the port side. By the time the two men reached the signal bridge, the American aircraft was approaching the ship on the port side, off its bow.

  Tamursheki ran from the starboard bridge wing to the port bridge wing, pushing a crewman, who was standing in the hatchway watching the approaching aircraft, out of the way. He stopped his forward rush with both hands grabbing the top link of the safety chain running along the port walkway. The roar of the four turbo engines flew across the ship, riding the wind blowing from that direction. He shouted instructions to the two warriors above him, and then realized they couldn’t hear him. He climbed the ladder leading up to the open signal bridge and ran to where they squatted beneath a canvas awning.

  “What are you doing?” he screamed.

  “We are waiting for your orders!”

  “I told you, shoot it down!”

  They looked at each other curiously, turned their eyes up at Tamursheki, and nodded. He reached down and grabbed the nearest man to him — Boulas, the Yemeni camel herder. Why did incompetents surround him? Why did he have to make every decision? Did it take even a man with a little bit of schooling to make a decision to shoot down the infidel?

  Qasim appeared at the top of the ladder. “It is turning again, Ya Affendi.”

  Tamursheki, still holding Boulas by the top of the white aba, turned and looked at Qasim.

  Qasim made a circling motion with his right index finger. “It is coming back. Coming back down the right side,” he explained in his deep voice.

  Tamursheki pushed Boulas. “Quick. You and Dabir, get over there!” He pushed the man toward the starboard side of the signal bridge, forcing him from beneath the small canvas erected to protect the signal bridge from the hot sun.