“Engine side, Chief speaking.”
“We got ‘em, Chief,” Blake said. “I’m going back to the bridge and we’ll switch back to normal running.”
“Roger that. How many did we get?”
“Eight,” Blake replied.
“It’s a start,” said the chief.
“That it is,” said Blake. “That it is.”
Chapter Twelve
Drillship Ocean Goliath
Arabian Sea
123 miles from the coast of Oman
Mukhtar watched over the operator’s shoulder as the man stared into the monitor and directed the little ROV over the seabed. It was cool in the air-conditioned control room, but sweat beaded the man’s forehead and formed dark circles under the arms of his khaki shirt. Mukhtar rested his hand on the operator’s shoulder and smiled as the man flinched.
“Move to the left,” said Mukhtar, pointing on the monitor that displayed the camera feed from the ROV. “There.”
Sure enough, as the ROV moved closer to the area he’d indicated, the objects came into focus: small gas cylinders half buried in silt.
“Good,” Mukhtar said. “Gather them.”
The operator nodded and engaged a joystick, and a robotic arm came into camera view, plucking cylinders from the silt to put them in the front basket on the ROV.
“Six,” the operator said. “The basket’s full. We’ll have to bring her up.”
“All right,” said Mukhtar. “But get it back down as soon as possible. Gather as many of the cylinders as you can.” The operator nodded, and Mukhtar left the control room, stopping on the way out to admonish his two men on duty to keep an eye on the infidels and summon him if anything looked suspicious.
He moved from the deckhouse to stand by the rail on the open deck, the outside temperature more to his liking. He gazed out to sea, assessing his situation. The prize was in reach, but it had been a long, hard path. One he’d hardly chosen.
Like others in the far-flung Somali diaspora, he’d left his afflicted land a student with high hopes of bettering himself. What he’d found in the UK, and later in Europe, was hatred and prejudice, both for the color of his skin and his religion. And though he’d never been there, by all accounts the US was even worse.
Oh, they spoke fine words of tolerance and equality, but eyes tracked him everywhere, even when he was in Western dress. Eyes that spoke eloquently, if silently. What are you doing here? You’re not one of us. Go back to where you belong.
And so he had, but not before wandering Europe and working menial jobs, always the outsider. In time, he learned to become invisible. As a man, he was a foreign threat; as a fawning, obsequious servant, he was unremarkable and unthreatening.
He studied the ways of these people, so different from the clan system of his home. He met with others of the True Faith—some Somali, some not—in mosques and coffee shops, and they commiserated over their lives and the lack of respect for their faith and culture. He ended his European trek in Germany, becoming ever surer with each passing month that Islam could never coexist with the infidels. How ironic it was to reach that understanding in the country that had done so much to eradicate the hated Jews. Contrary to popular wisdom, the enemy of his enemy was not always his friend.
There in Germany, Allah had first set Mukhtar’s feet on the true path. He’d worked as an orderly in a hospice—another job no one wanted—wiping the asses of the dying and listening to the drug-induced revelations of the medicated. The old man had been blind, just another lump of wasted flesh with no visitors, stubbornly refusing to die. But his rambling rants against the Jews had been interesting, as had the discovery this human husk had once been a doctor in the Waffen SS.
The real revelation had been a deathbed tale of regret, a story of a submarine going down with a cargo of nerve gas—a gas so potent it would have changed the course of that long-ago war. Intrigued, Mukhtar’s research revealed U-859 had indeed sunk after torpedoing an American ship. He speculated as to the value of such nerve gas to the jihad, but ultimately lost interest. What good was a weapon on the ocean bottom, over twenty-five hundred meters deep?
By the time he returned to Somalia, Mukhtar was a dedicated jihadist. He joined al-Shabaab and rose through its ranks, and daydreamed no more of U-859 and her cargo of nerve gas. Until, that is, he saw the press release from the flamboyant and extravagantly rich playboy Sheik Mustafa of Oman announcing purchase of the salvage rights on the SS John Barry, the very ship sunk by U-859.
Historical accounts said U-859 had been sunk after torpedoing the John Barry, so after Ocean Goliath located the Liberty ship, finding U-859 had been child’s play. And as he’d hoped, the sub had cracked open like an egg when she hit the bottom and littered the sea floor with her cargo. They found gas cylinders almost immediately. He sighed. If only the rest of it had been as easy.
He’d expected some deterioration, given the time involved, but he’d hoped for better results. When he’d dressed one of his men in the chemical suit and had him test the gas on a hostage, the results were hardly promising. Of the first six cylinders salvaged, five had been duds. His man had opened the gas in the hostage’s face, and the first three cylinders produced a puff of white powder with no discernible impact. The gas was still potent in the fourth cylinder and the hostage died, but testing of the last two cylinders on a new victim produced the same white powder and no results. He’d thrown the live hostage back with the others and contemplated his next move.
He’d no choice but to salvage as many of the cylinders as possible. Once they got the cylinders to a lab, he could harvest and concentrate the gas that was still effective. But it was all going to take time—more time than he’d allotted. He had the tool pusher making daily reports, and to those ashore, the salvage operation appeared to be proceeding normally. However, he could never tell when the sheik might visit.
He had to scoop up all the cylinders quickly and move the drillship back over the John Barry. They’d then take the gas cylinders, loot the silver, kill the crew, and leave. Investigators would find a ship looted for her treasure. No one would know of the gas—until they found out about it in a most unpleasant manner.
Mukhtar sighed. One thing at a time. First, he had to collect all the cylinders.
CIA headquarters
Maritime Threat Assessment
Langley, VA
“You’re sure about this?” Ward asked for the third time.
“As sure as I can be,” the analyst replied. “He’s used the phone twice. The message was scrambled, but it’s definitely this guy Mukhtar’s phone.”
Ward fell silent for a moment and studied the chart on the conference table as he stroked his chin. “And what’s he doing on a drillship?”
“More to the point,” the analyst said, indicating two positions marked on the chart, “why did the drillship move after he got onboard?”
“What’ve you got on her?” Ward asked.
The analyst shuffled some papers. “Let’s see. The Ocean Goliath. Owned by Emerald Offshore Drilling, Houston, Texas. Currently on charter to a consortium controlled by Sheik Ali Hassan Mustafa of Oman.”
“What’s the story with the sheik? Is he a radical? Any chance our friend Mukhtar is aboard as an invited guest?” Ward asked.
“Don’t think so,” the analyst said. “Sheik Mustafa is the stereotypical rich-playboy type, educated in the UK, hobnobs with the glitterati, the whole nine yards. All the financial checks come up clean as far as funding suspect charities and similar activities.” He shrugged. “He’s a rich dickhead, but an unlikely terrorist.”
“So what’s the connection then?” Ward persisted. “Our friend Mukhtar is hijacking a drilling operation? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s more of a treasure hunt.” The analyst slid a press release across the table. Ward picked it up and saw a picture of the smiling sheik holding up a model of a World War II Liberty ship. The press release ran several pages.
“Give me t
he high points,” Ward said.
“The SS John Barry was en route to Iran with military supplies for Russia with a scheduled port call in Saudi Arabia, where she was to offload three million silver riyals minted in Philadelphia for the Saudi government. She never made it. On 28 August 1944, she was torpedoed by U-859, which was in turn sunk by a British fighter shadowing the John Barry. The sheik and his partners are after the silver.”
Ward looked skeptical. “So how much are three million riyals worth today?”
“It’s not the riyals, it’s the silver. It was worth about half a million bucks in 1944, but silver was eighteen cents an ounce. Now, it’s over thirty bucks an ounce, so the coins are worth between ninety and a hundred million for the silver content. But that’s not the whole story. There were persistent rumors that John Barry was carrying a secret cargo of another twenty-six million dollars of uncoined silver bullion, and that’s at 1944 silver prices.”
Ward let out a low whistle. “How much is that worth?”
“At today’s silver prices? Several billion—with a b—dollars.”
“So let me get this straight,” said Ward. “You’re telling me the location of this wreck has been known for over sixty years, and no one’s gone after it?”
“Too deep,” the analyst replied. “It’s in over eighty-five hundred feet of water, and silver’s heavy. No one ever figured out how to salvage it before now. And it’s not a cheap operation—the average day rate on a drillship like Ocean Goliath is almost a half million bucks. It took someone with deep pockets and an appetite for risk to even consider it. Remember, the only verified treasure is the coins.”
“But an al-Shabaab connection still doesn’t make sense,” Ward said. “Even if there is a fortune in silver and this Mukhtar guy loots it, he’s still got to turn it into something he can use to fund his operation, and I don’t think converting that much silver to cash can be done under the radar.” Ward stroked his chin and looked back down at the chart. “You said the ship moved sometime after Mukhtar went aboard. What do you make of that?”
The analyst shrugged. “Could be any number of legitimate reasons. The wreck might be in two or more pieces, or maybe they missed it on the first try and are trying another position.”
“How long were they in the first position?” Ward asked.
The analyst shuffled through various satellite photos until he found the one he wanted. “Ten days.”
“Sounds like they were already where they wanted to be,” Ward said. “So what else could draw our friend Mukhtar’s interest?”
“The only wreck that’s even close is the sub.”
“The submarine,” Ward said. “Get me everything you can on this U-859.”
Two hours later, Ward sat fidgeting at his desk, trying to get some work done as he stole glances at his phone. He answered it on the first ring.
“Ward.”
“U-859. Keel laid in Bremen, Germany, in 1942. She was delivered to the Kriegsmarine in 1943 and assigned to the Monsun Gruppe, or ‘Monsoon Group,’ to operate in the Far East alongside the Imperial Japanese Navy. She was a Type IXD2 U-boat, fitted with a snorkel to enable extensive underwater operation during the passage from Kiel, Germany, to her Far East base at Penang, Malaysia.”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” said Ward. “Did you get anything that might be of actual use?”
“Look, Ward. There’s not a lot there, OK?”
But there was more; Ward could sense it in the analyst’s voice. He was just waiting for Ward to be properly appreciative.
Ward sighed. “OK, Joe. I know you’re about to hit me with an ‘oh, by the way.’ I can hear it in your voice. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”
He could picture the analyst smiling.
“Oh, by the way,” the man said. “There was one survivor from the sub.”
“So what?” Ward replied. “I’m supposed to fly to Germany and interview a ninety-year-old Kraut, presuming he’s even alive?”
“Japanese, actually,” said the analyst. “He’s ninety-four and lives in Frederick, Maryland. Would you like his address?”
Imamura residence
112 Shady Oak Lane
Frederick, Maryland
Jesse Ward drove down the quiet tree-lined street of well-maintained older homes set on large, immaculately landscaped lots—the American dream. The irritating mechanical voice of the GPS jarred him from his reverie.
“Arriving … at … one … twelve … Shady … Oak … Lane … on … right.”
Ward pulled into the long drive and down toward a large detached garage set back some distance from the house. He stopped beside the house and got out, feigning an exaggerated stretch as he looked around. From his vantage point, he could see a manicured front lawn, complemented by an even larger area behind the house, dominated by a well-tended vegetable garden. He turned and started for the front door when he was hailed from the backyard.
“Agent Ward?”
He turned to see a small bespectacled man moving out of the vegetable garden, clad in a plaid work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. There was dirt on the knees of his well-worn jeans, and a straw hat was perched on his head, its broad brim hiding his face in shadow. He pulled off a pair of work gloves and dropped them to the ground at the edge of the garden as he continued toward Ward. He was bent with age and moved with arthritic slowness, leaning on a cane.
“Dr. Imamura?” asked Ward.
“Please, call me Yoshi,” said the man, with the slightest trace of an accent. “I have not doctored anyone in some time.” He smiled before gesturing to the garden. “Except, of course, my poor plants, who have no choice in the matter.”
Ward followed the doctor’s gaze. “It’s a beautiful garden.”
“My wife’s passion.” Imamura’s smile turned wistful. “She got me interested in it after I retired. I lost her some years ago to cancer, but somehow, with my hands in the dirt I often feel she is still here, just out of sight in the next row. “ He looked back at Ward. “But I don’t think you came from Langley to listen to the maudlin ramblings of a very old man. Come. Let’s sit on the patio and you can tell me what I can do for the CIA.”
Imamura hobbled to a covered patio at the back of the house, with Ward in tow. They were met by a large black woman who looked to be in her sixties. She set a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on a lawn table and fixed Ward with an inquisitive, none-too-friendly stare.
“Ahh … thank you, Mrs. Lomax,” Imamura said. “Agent Ward, this is Mrs. Lomax. She does all the work around here and frees me to putter about in the garden. Mrs. Lomax, this is Agent Ward.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ward said. The woman nodded and turned to leave.
“I don’t think she likes me,” Ward said, as the back door closed.
Imamura chuckled. “Mrs. Lomax is quite reserved, but she is my rock. She’s worked here for over twenty-five years, and her continued presence allows me my independence. My wife and I weren’t blessed with children, so …” He shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed a full life, Agent Ward. I hope one day in the not-too-distant future Mrs. Lomax finds me in the garden, resting peacefully with a smile on my face.”
Ward found himself warming to the little Japanese, despite what he suspected of the man’s past. He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
Imamura gestured Ward to a chair beside the lawn table as he took off his hat and placed it in another chair. He poured two glasses of lemonade, his hands shaking with the palsy of age, before taking a seat himself. “So tell me, Agent Ward. How may I help you?”
Ward scratched his head. “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. Perhaps we can start with your own background and how you came to the US.”
Imamura looked puzzled. “I hardly see how events of over sixty years ago can … oh, all right, I suppose it makes no difference. I was a doctor in Japan after the war, and I was offered the opportunity to come to the US in 1946. I was a young man, just married, and times in postwar Japan were ex
tremely difficult. We were quite apprehensive because we did not know how Japs would be received in the US.” He paused. “And it was hard at first. But we worked very hard at perfecting our English and fitting in. My new colleagues were very supportive, and my wife and I became citizens in 1955. We never returned to Japan.”
“And by your ‘new colleagues,’ I assume you’re referring to your co-workers at USAMRIID?” Ward asked, pronouncing it “U-sam-rid,” the acronym for the US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.
“Yes,” said Imamura, “though it was called the Biological Warfare Laboratories when I first joined it.”
“One thing—no, make that several things puzzle me,” Ward said. “War refugees were clamoring to enter the US at the time, but we were taking very few from Japan. Yet you were picked from the crowd, and as best I can tell from existing records—and there are damn few of those, by the way—you were fast-tracked straight to a good job in the US. Why is that?”
“Let us say that I had skills which were in demand.”
“Such as?”
Imamura avoided eye contact, and lifted his glass to sip at the lemonade. The glass shook in his hand from a bit more than his normal palsy and ice cubes clinked in a steady rattle. “Agent Ward,” Imamura said, “all details of my employment at USAMRIID and its predecessor are classified. You, of all people, should know that.”
“You’re right, Doctor. Forget I asked. My interest has nothing to do with USAMRIID, or your time here in the US.”
“What interest is that?” Imamura asked over the rim of his glass.
Deadly Coast (A Tom Dugan Novel) Page 11
