Although the timing was uncomfortably tight, everything was going according to plan. After nightfall, they had retrieved the explosives and their weapons from the four streamlined trunks attached by powerful magnets to the hull five feet below the waterline. Fifty miles out they had attached them to the stern of the ship, where the water flow was the least disturbed, and none of them had been lost.
They faced no immediate threats to the operation. Everything was going according to plan. Yet Graham could feel that someone was coming. It was as if he were game, being stalked by a jungle cat he could not see but knew was there.
As soon as he stepped through the hatch and started down the stairs he was aware of a deep-throated hissing sound, as if he were hearing a powerful waterfall from a long distance, or compressed air being let out of a submarine’s ballast tanks. It was the inert nitrogen being vented out of the tank. They had to do it slowly so that no one in the harbor would hear what was being done and come to investigate. Once the nitrogen was gone, the air spaces at the top of the product tanks would fill with an explosive mixture of gases that continuously evaporated from crude oil.
When that happened, the entire tanker would become a time bomb waiting for a simple spark, or the explosion of a few kilograms of Semtex, to blow sky-high, destroying the entire ship and anything or anyone in its vicinity.
The steel plating of the hull was cool and dry to the touch, but the wall of the product tank was greasy with condensation, and the air stank so badly of crude oil gases that it was practically unbreathable.
Ramati was crouched at the bottom of the stairs, molding a four-kilo brick of plastic explosive to the base of the tank, while Faruq al-Tashkiri, who’d been an electrical rating aboard an Egyptian destroyer, held a red light.
The noise of the venting nitrogen was very strong down here, but it suddenly stopped and Ramati and al-Tashkiri looked up, their eyes wide as if they were deer caught in headlights.
“We’re almost done here,” Ramati said. “And this is the last tank.”
“Good,” Graham said. “The pilot is due aboard in thirty minutes, and you have to clean up, change into the first’s clothes, and be at the rail to greet him and bring him up to the bridge.”
“Give me one minute, Captain, and I’ll have the receiver wired to the detonator,” Ramati said. “But for Allah’s sake make sure that your transmitter is in the safe mode.” He managed a thin, pale smile in the red light. “After all this work I don’t want to go to Paradise empty-handed, with no infidel souls blown to hell.”
Graham took the transmitter out of his pocket and held it up. “No battery yet,” he said. The transmitter looked like an ordinary cell phone. But he’d not taken the battery out; he would only have to enter 9 # 11 and the Apurto Devlán would light up like the interior of the sun in the blink of an eye.
No one aboard would feel a thing. One minute they would be alive, and in the next there would be nothingness.
For just a moment Graham toyed with the idea of entering the code right now. End it once and for all. Maybe most of the rest of the world was right and he was wrong; maybe there was a god after all. Maybe by pushing the buttons now he could be with Jillian just as the Anglican priest at her funeral had promised.
Ramati read something of this from Graham’s expression. “Captain?” he said.
Graham managed a tight smile, and put the transmitter back in his pocket. There were times like these when he thought he might be insane. But it didn’t matter. He was what he was, a product of the world he lived in. “I want you both on deck in twenty minutes.”
Al-Tashkiri was looking at him with a religious light in his face.
Graham nodded. “Only four hours now,” he said.
The young Egyptian compressed his lips as if he was afraid to speak, but he nodded vigorously.
“See you on the bridge,” Graham told them, and he headed back up on deck.
It wasn’t he who was insane, it was Ramati and al-Tashkiri and the other bastards who were willing to blow themselves up for the cause. Even if there were a god, He, She, or It wouldn’t require suicide bombings to kill someone who didn’t believe in the right things. That was the face of insanity.
Maybe it wasn’t the people who were insane, maybe it was the gods.
Topside in the fresh air, he used his walkie-talkie to call Hijazi in the engine room. “Are you ready to answer ship’s bells?”
“Aywa,” Hijazi came back at once.
“English,” Graham radioed.
“Yes, everything is in order here,” Hijazi said.
Graham could hear the excitement in the man’s voice. He was just like the others; they thought they were going to be in Paradise in a few hours. The younger ones had written suicide notes to their families, which would be posted from Karachi when the operation was completed. The older freedom fighters like Hijazi hadn’t bothered. “It’s enough to know that we hurt the bastards,” he’d told the others during training.
“Then stand by,” Graham said. “We should be getting under way within the hour.”
The channel was silent for a few moments. Graham was about to pocket the walkie-talkie when Hijazi came back, his voice subdued.
“God be with you,” he said.
Religious mumbo jumbo, Graham thought. The engine room would be Hijazi’s final resting place and the man knew it. He was simply trying to say his goodbyes. Graham keyed his walkie-talkie. “Insh’allah,” he said.
Pocketing the walkie-talkie he headed up to the bridge. Mumbo jumbo or not, he needed Hijazi and the others for just a few more hours. And if it took mumbling blessings, then so be it.
FIFTEEN
EN ROUTE TO PANAMA CITY
McGarvey was flown across the lake to the military area of Maracaibo’s La Chinita Airport aboard a Venezuelan Navy Sea King helicopter. He was met on the tarmac by a dark-skinned air force captain who introduced himself as Ernesto Rubio.
“I have a Gulfstream standing by for you, sir,” the captain said. “It’s the vice president’s, so I think you’ll find the accommodations pleasant enough.”
The only activity at this hour was on the civilian side. A 747 was taxiing out for takeoff, the last flight of the evening, the one McGarvey should have been on. Gallegos had escorted him to the helicopter, which had landed in a parking lot near the commercial docks, but he had not come along for the ride. He’d been ordered back to Caracas to brief the chief of Venezuelan intelligence on the situation. It had the potential of becoming a major international embarrassment. Zulia State Security had allowed a Vensport ship to be so easily hijacked that the CIA had to intervene. If the Apurto Devlán actually made it to California and destroyed a refinery, the consequences for Venezuela’s already ailing economy would be nothing short of devastating. McGarvey was to be given all the help he wanted, while Gallegos briefed his boss on worst-case scenarios; one of which was that the ship had not been hijacked. If U.S. forces boarded her and found the legitimate captain and crew going about their lawful business, relations between Caracas and Washington would become worse than they already were.
McGarvey followed the air force officer fifty yards across the tarmac to a sleek bizjet with civilian markings already warming up inside a hangar. Its hatch was open and a young attractive woman in an air force uniform stood at the foot of the boarding stairs.
“We just got clearance to transit Colombian airspace,” Rubio said as they climbed aboard. “We can head straight across to Cartagena and from there, follow the coast southwest. Should be touching down at Panama City in under two hours.”
“I’ll need to use my satellite phone once we’re in the air,” McGarvey said. “Is that going to cause a problem?”
“No, sir,” Rubio told him. He said something in Spanish to the flight attendant, who smiled and nodded. Then he turned back to McGarvey. “Sergeant Contreras speaks excellent English. If you need anything just ask her. We’ll be taking off immediately.”
Rubio went forward to the c
ockpit while the attendant brought up the stairs, closed and dogged the hatch, and then stowed McGarvey’s overnight bag. They were out of the hangar and taxiing rapidly across to an active runway as McGarvey strapped into one of the very large, leather upholstered swivel chairs on the starboard side. Within less than two minutes they were accelerating down the runway, and then lifting off into the night, on their way to what could very well turn into a bloodbath before morning.
The attendant came back to him from the galley. “Would you care for a drink, sir?” she asked. Her hair was very dark, and her eyes were wide and warm. She seemed to be genuinely interested in serving him.
“A cognac if you have it,” McGarvey said. “Neat.”
“Certainly, sir,” she said.
He pulled out his sat phone and called Rencke, who answered on the first ring.
“Oh wow, Mac, the pilot is already on his way out to the ship,” Otto gushed. “We picked up the Transit Authority’s coms channels. Means they’ll lift anchor within the hour. Probably sooner.”
“How long will it take them to get into the locks?”
“An hour, once they get under way, maybe less, to make it to the first lock, and then an hour and a half or two at the most to make it through all three.”
“If you were going to do it, where would it be?”
“The middle lock,” Otto said without hesitation. “With any luck you’d take out all three, plus the control house, pumps, and electrical switches.”
Sergeant Contreras set his drink on the low table at his elbow then returned to the galley. She was trained to make herself scarce when a VIP guest was on the phone.
“That’s where it’ll happen,” McGarvey said. “What about the Rapid Response Team? Have they been briefed?”
“Yes, and you’re going to run into a buzz saw,” Otto said. “The on-duty squad is a SEAL fire team. Gung ho. The team leader is Lieutenant Ron Herring. I looked up his record; he’s a good man, one of the best. Kosovo, Afghanistan, and northern Iraq. Same team. He wasn’t going to back down even for Berndt, once he was briefed.”
“What does he want to do?”
“Take the ship right now,” Otto said. “In the holding basin, before she raises anchor.”
“They might pull the pin the moment someone sets foot aboard,” McGarvey warned. But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure. Graham’s crewmen were probably Muslim fanatics, al-Quaida-trained mujahideen. They’d sacrifice themselves. But Graham had a long record of terrorist attacks against Western interests. Just like bin Laden, Graham was one of the generals who led other men to die for him. He wasn’t planning on killing himself just to prove a point. He had an escape plan; one that he considered foolproof.
“Herring knows that you’re on the way. He’s going to sit tight for the moment, but he’s waiting for your call. He wants to talk.”
“Good, I want to talk to him,” McGarvey said. “What’s his phone number?”
“Just a sec,” Otto said. “Okay, I just sent it to you. Hit phone book, his number will come up first, then press Send.”
McGarvey smiled and shook his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re scary?”
Otto laughed. “Oh, boy. Not lately and not by you. Thanks, Mac.” He took it as a compliment. “Good luck.”
Lieutenant Herring was waiting for the call. He answered on the first ring. “Mr. McGarvey, I presume.” He sounded young, but no-nonsense.
“That’s right. I’m aboard a Venezuelan air force Gulfstream, and we’ll be touching down in Panama City in less than two hours. What’s your present situation?”
“My team is standing by on the ramp,” Herring said.
“What’s your plan?” McGarvey asked tersely.
“Save lives first, and the canal second,” Herring shot back. “If I’m allowed to do my job without civilian interference.”
“Look, Lieutenant, the ship’s real crew has probably been murdered, and the ship rigged to explode—”
“It’s my intention to prevent just that,” Herring said. “Before the ship gets into the canal.”
“You’d better be quick and accurate,” McGarvey said. “The moment they find out your people are aboard they’ll push the button and the Apurto Devlán will light up like a Roman candle. Anything nearby will be destroyed as well.”
“They may blow the bottom out, and the ship might sink, spilling its oil into the bay, but aside from an ecological disaster the damage won’t be as widespread as it would if the same thing happened inside one of the locks. My engineers tell me that the hydraulic shock of a substantial underwater explosion could put the lock doors out of commission.”
“Did your engineers tell you what would happen if the nitrogen gas in the oil tanks was bled off first?” McGarvey asked.
Herring hesitated for just a beat. “Someone at anchor in the holding basin would have heard it. From what I’m told the operation is noisy.”
“Not if it was done slowly, over the past half-dozen hours or so,” McGarvey countered.
“I’ll concede the point, Mr. McGarvey. But it’s all the more reason to hit the ship before she enters the locks.”
“Except for one thing,” McGarvey said. “Everyone aboard is a Muslim fanatic. Willing to die for the cause. Everyone except for the captain, who is ex–British Royal Navy. He won’t push the button unless there is no way out for him.”
“Continue,” Herring said.
“He has an escape plan.”
“How do you know that?”
“Men like him always do,” McGarvey said. He’d been going up against Graham’s type for more than twenty years. The names and some of the methods changed, but the mindset was pretty much the same; they were willing to kill for their twisted reasons, but none of them were quite as willing to die for their cause. “And I know this guy, do you?”
“No,” Herring admitted. “So what do you want to do, McGarvey?”
“He means to get into the second Gatun lock before he pushes the button,” McGarvey said. “I want to let him do exactly that.”
“Whose side are you on?” Herring shouted.
“The explosives will be on a remote detonator, which only Graham will have,” McGarvey explained. “All we have to do is throw a monkey wrench in his plan to get off the ship before he pushes the button. But without him knowing about it.”
“How in hell are you going to do that?” Herring demanded.
“Meet me at the airport and I’ll tell you,” McGarvey said. “In the meantime don’t alert the Panamanian authorities, I don’t want to start a panic.”
SIXTEEN
APURTO DEVLÁN, LIMÓN BAY HOLDING BASIN
Graham lowered his binoculars and turned around from where he’d been studying the entry to the Gatun locks as Ramati came aboard the bridge with the Panama Transit Authority pilot. The dark-skinned, substantially built man wore dark slacks and a light blue short-sleeved shirt with his name and position, PILOTO, sewn above the left pocket. He carried a small leather satchel.
“Captain Slavin, our pilot has arrived,” Ramati said.
Graham laid the binoculars aside. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Sanchez,” he said, reading the name tag.
The pilot shook hands with Graham, but he had an odd expression on his face. “I don’t remember you, sir,” he said.
Graham shrugged. “I don’t believe that we’ve met.”
Sanchez shook his head. “No. But I was sure that the name was familiar.”
Graham considered the unexpected problem for just an instant, and then he smiled. “My cousin Dimitri is employed by GAC. You probably worked with him. We could be brothers.”
Sanchez was skeptical, but he shrugged. He walked past Graham, set his satchel down beside the helm station, took out a pair of binoculars, and looked through the windows at the foredeck. “Are your engines ready to answer the bells?”
“Of course,” Graham said. “We’re anxious to get started.”
Sanchez lowered the binoculars and turne
d around. His gaze lingered for just a moment on al-Tashkiri who would be standing by at the helm, then to Ramati who would relay the pilot’s orders to the deck crew, and finally to Graham. “Why are your line handlers not on deck?” he asked mildly, no hint of rebuke in his tone of voice.
He was just doing his job, but Graham felt sure that the man was suspicious that everything was not as it should be here. “I was waiting for your arrival, Mr. Sanchez,” Graham said evenly. “No need to have my people standing by in this heat and humidity until they’re required.”
“They’re required now, Mr. Slavin, if you please,” Sanchez said. “When they are in position, you may raise anchor and we shall proceed.”
“As you wish,” Graham said. He nodded for Ramati, who keyed his walkie-talkie. Just for an instant Graham had the terrible thought that his number one was going to speak in Arabic, in which case the game would be up, the pilot would have to be killed, and they would probably not make it to the locks.
His own escape was assured. If he had to abandon the plan out here in the bay, he would activate a small homing beacon, don a life jacket, and slip over the side. Within minutes the Nueva Cruz, which had followed them from the rendezvous yesterday, would pick him up. When they were far enough out, he would detonate the explosives and then head northwest to Costa Rica where he would be put ashore near Puerto Limón. From there he would make his way overland to the international airport at San José and then Mexico City.
On the other hand, if they did make it all the way into the second lock, he would simply step over the side in the shadows while the ship was at the height of the lift and the deck was nearly at the same level as the lip of the canal chamber. From there he would make his way out of the damage zone, push the 9 # 11, and in the confusion get back to the head of Limón Bay where a small boat would be standing by to take him out to the Nueva Cruz.
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