The Socotra Incident

by Richard Fox

  “Moshe. You worried the security team on the boat might think we’re pirates?” Ritter said to the lead Israeli.

  “They’re expecting us. But I have an idea.” Moshe switched to Hebrew, and all the Israelis took off their armor and uniform tops, exposing olive and pale skin. Shlomo, the sole team member of African descent, shrugged and stayed dressed.

  “Somali pirates look the part. Don’t be shy,” Moshe said.

  “You think this will work?” Ritter asked.

  “You want to find a sign that says, ‘We’re not pirates—don’t shoot us’ in eight languages?”

  Ritter pulled his shirt off; a jagged scar ran down his side, a gift from a Chechen terrorist many years ago. The pectoral cut he’d earned in Aden was still healing. Bruises the color of a stormy night blotted his left shoulder and his neck. His head still ached, and his slashed face had swollen during their trek from the Socotra coast.

  Mike went topless, a tattoo of a black scroll with the words “75 RANGER RGT” on his right deltoid. The word Mogadishu was under the scroll along with tic and slash marks that must have counted into the fifties.

  Water cannons on the cargo ship erupted into a palisade of seawater as they approached. Ritter spied at least three men armed with rifles racing around the deck as they approached. An Israeli climbed to the top of the wheelhouse on the dhow and waved to the ship, slapping at his fish-belly-white skin.

  The water cannons subsided, and the dhow came alongside the ship after it cut its engines.

  A burly man with an AK-47 looked down on the dhow from a gap in the razor wire ringing the ship.

  “You need help up?” the man said, his English thick with a Russian accent. Ritter looked down the hull and saw rungs of a ladder running up the ship, all covered in razor wire.

  “We have wounded and”— Moshe pointed to the nuke case on the deck—“and something very heavy.”

  “Have net. You wait.”

  The deck had a field of cargo containers, only a single level in depth. Ritter and three Israelis carried the nuke behind the trio of the Russian security guard, Mike and Moshe ahead of them.

  “Anyone else getting sick of carrying this damn thing?” Ritter said. The rest of his crew muttered and added their own curses. The Russian led them to a container halfway down the line and unlocked a blue cargo container.

  “This one, da?”

  Mike glanced at his satellite phone, at the numbers stenciled on the container, and nodded.

  The door swung open, and they carried the nuke inside. The inside was bare. The only feature inside was a steel door and a keypad on the opposite end. They set the nuke down halfway inside.

  “We need to tie it down?” Ritter asked. The seas were calm, but trying to calm the loose cannon of several hundred pounds of the nuclear weapon sliding around the container didn’t appeal to him.

  Mike shook his head.

  “I let crew out now? They thought you pirate. They in safe room,” the Russian said.

  “Shlomo, the rest of you, go with him.” Moshe cracked the knuckles on both his hands.

  Shlomo nodded and repeated the gesture.

  Something nagged at the back of Ritter’s mind as the Israelis and the Russian left. Repeating a gesture usually meant good report in a conversation. What Moshe and Shlomo had done struck Ritter as more of a signal than something innocent.

  “Time for you to deliver,” Moshe said to Mike.

  Mike nodded and went to the door. The door wasn’t on the back of the container as Ritter had first thought; it was on the next container, one rank deeper in the field of containers. The back of the container they were in had been removed to provide access to the door.

  Mike tapped out a code on the keypad, and a light pulsed green. They heard a whirring noise followed by a clunk. Mike mashed down on the door’s handle and pulled it open. Steel rods on the door frame made it look like they were about to enter a bank vault.

  Ritter stepped into the container, and his jaw dropped.

  A computer workstation flashed to life, a satellite photo of their location in the middle of the ocean on the screen. Russian script was on the keyboard and on the monitor. Beyond the computer was a hydraulic system attached to the roof and a metal tube that ran the remaining length of the container. It was a meter in diameter and covered in stenciled Russian.

  Ritter moved to a metal panel bolted to the tube and shined a small penlight onto the writing. His ability to recognize advanced weapon systems learned from his brief time as a military intelligence officer was a bit rusty, but there was no way that what the panel said could be correct.

  “Mike, is this a…Sizzler cruise missile?” Ritter asked, using the NATO designation for the Russian weapon.

  “That’s right,” Moshe said. “A cruise missile hidden inside a standard forty-foot cargo container. Perfect concealment, wouldn’t you say? We input the target coordinates right here”—he tapped the side of the computer console— “and get the hell out of the way. The Russians have some unimaginative name for the system, but everyone else calls it the Club K.”

  Ritter’s mind raced with the implications of what the Israelis could do with the weapon. The Club K could be hidden anywhere a ship or truck could transport it. They could load it onto a truck, drive it into the middle of a country, and hit a target within two hundred miles. It was the ultimate weapon for a first strike—and a strike that couldn’t be blamed on Israel if it had originated outside its borders.

  “Why does Israel want this?” Ritter asked.

  Moshe huffed, and a sneer rose on his face. “Why did you want this?” The Israeli looked at Mike. “Launch codes.”

  “Need more bandwidth than this can give us,” Mike said as he gave the satellite phone a quick shake.

  Moshe shrugged. “Fine, there should be something on the bridge. Ritter, why don’t you go find the medic? Get that cut looked at.”

  He’s trying to separate us, Ritter thought. Ritter locked eyes with Mike, then tapped his watch four times. Signaling danger through the subtle sign language the team had developed over years. .

  Mike shook his head and followed Moshe out.

  Maybe I’m just being paranoid, Ritter thought.

  He walked past the nuke case and did some quick math. Could someone mount the nuke on the Club K? He stopped and looked hard at the case.

  “Ritter, locking up,” Moshe said from the entrance.

  “Right, sorry.”

  The Israeli medic teased open the cut running along Ritter’s jawline and irrigated it with distilled water. Ritter’s eye twitched with the pain, but he held still.

  “Some dirt there. Don’t want an infection,” the medic said.

  The infirmary was small, the single bed taken up by the gut-shot Israeli, who had an IV dripping into his arm. Ritter sat on an exam table while the medic poked around the storage cabinet.

  “What is word for ‘painkiller’ used by dentist?” the medic asked.

  “Novocain,” Ritter said.

  “Yes. No-vo-caine. Ah, here.” He took a glass vial from the cabinet and stuck a syringe into the rubber top. “I know Israeli word in script. Different.”

  Ritter heard muffled words from the medic’s earpiece. He looked down at his control set. His radio was on, set to the right channel, but he didn’t hear anything. Why was the medic on a different channel? More words came from the medic’s earpiece, slow and measured. Like counting. The medic gripped the syringe body like it was a knife handle.

  Ritter reached into his cargo pocket and grabbed the Korean’s pistol, keeping it hidden in his pants. He undid the safety with the flick of a thumb and tilted the barrel toward the Israeli.

  The counting in the medic’s ear stopped, and a blast shook the infirmary. The medic twisted around and lunged at Ritter with the needle. Ritter fired the gun and hit the medic in the center of his chest. He slapped the medic’s hand aside as he fell forward.

  The medic stumbled against the exam table, hands over
the hole in his sternum. Ritter pushed himself off the table and slammed a knee into the medic’s head. The medic’s skull whacked the edge of the table, and he collapsed onto the floor. Ritter finished him off with a stomp.

  He swung the pistol at the injured Israeli, who remained unconscious. He took a pair of zip ties from his armor and bound both of the Israeli’s arms to the runners alongside the bed. He wouldn’t hurt a helpless man, but he could make sure he stayed helpless.

  Ritter almost keyed his radio to talk to Mike, but that line had to be monitored.

  He swung his armor on and stepped into the passageway. One hand held his pistol out and ready; the other clicked through the channels on his radio.

  Nothing. They must have abandoned the radio after the medic failed to report killing Ritter.

  What now? Ritter thought. The dhow? It had been running on fumes before it reached the ship. A lifeboat? Not without Mike.

  Mike would be on the bridge with Moshe. Was he even alive? Why had the Israelis turned on them?

  Ritter ran for the stairs, dashing up the outer hull of the superstructure leading to the bridge.

  Ritter heard gunfire rattling through the deck just below his feet. Either Mike or the crew security were still fighting. A bullet burst through the deck and bounced off a bulkhead. Ritter ran faster and took the stairs two at a time up toward the bridge.

  On the next deck, he found a Russian security guard and an Israeli lying on the deck. The Russian had been shot in the back of the head; the Israeli had a knife stuck in his chest. He heard someone stomping up the stairs on the other side of a hatch. Ritter stepped to the side of the hatch and let it block the view of whoever was about to open the door.

  The hatch opened, and Shlomo skidded to a halt when he saw Ritter’s pistol leveled at him.

  “Don’t move,” Ritter said.

  Shlomo raised his hands.

  “Back. Against the railing,” Ritter said. Shlomo walked back to the railing, the view behind him nothing but an ocean and blue sky stretching to the horizon. He bumped into the railing, and his hands shot back to hold onto it.

  “Eric, I can explain,” Shlomo said.

  “Go.”

  “You, me—here on the second deck with Netzer dead. It must look bad, right?” Shlomo said.

  Ritter cursed his stupidity. The TRANSMIT light on Shlomo’s radio was on. The rest of the Israelis had just heard Shlomo give them his position. Of all the Israelis, Ritter thought he and Shlomo had become friends. And he sells me out in a heartbeat, Ritter thought.

  “Turn around. Hands on the bar, and you’ll—”

  Shlomo’s hand darted behind his back, and Ritter shot him in the forehead.

  A knife clattered to the ground, and Shlomo reared back. He tumbled over the railing and into the ocean below.

  Ritter ran for the hatch and pointed his gun up the stairway. There was smoke, but no one else. The crew’s safe room was up one level, the bridge one more beyond that. He buried his mouth and nose in the crook of his elbow and went up the stairs.

  He ducked low beneath the smoke, which smelled of explosives and ozone, and looked inside the safe room. Black streaks marred the steel floor and walls outside the vault door protecting the crew’s safe room. A small hole, the diameter of a quarter, was on the door, with reddish copper residue around it. The Israelis had used their M4 antitank mine to launch a bullet into the safe room, killing the crew before they could be a problem.

  The bridge level was eerily silent. An Israeli was lying across the hatchway, blood running down an extended arm.

  Ritter stepped over him into the bridge. He found two more Israelis slumped against control panels, gunshot wounds to their torsos. A third man lay on the flying bridge beyond the hatch. He clutched a Tavor in his lifeless hands.

  Ritter shoved his pistol into a pocket and picked up the rifle. It had an almost-full magazine and a hot barrel. That was eight Israelis out of twelve accounted for, none of them Moshe.

  A hatchway below on the main deck burst open, and a security guard ran out onto the deck, clutching a bloody arm against his side. He stumbled and fell against a cargo container. Two Israelis followed him out, weapons trained on the guard.

  Ritter heard the guard’s protests and saw him hold out his good arm to surrender. Ritter brought the rifle to his shoulder and drew a bead on the trailing Israeli. He waited for the inevitable.

  The Israeli closest to the guard leveled his weapon and shot the guard with a blast of bullets. Ritter fired a fraction of a second later, and his target fell to a knee, then on his face.

  The other Israeli whirled around toward to his dead companion, then looked up at Ritter. Ritter hit him with two shots and sent him to the deck. He squeezed the trigger again, but the weapon clicked empty.

  “Ritter,” Moshe’s voice crackled from the dead men’s radios.

  Ritter pried a radio off a corpse and put the headset on.

  “Moshe,” he said.

  “I have Mike. If you want him to live, you come to the bomb,” Moshe said.

  Ritter pulled the Korean Makarov from his waistband and slid the magazine from the pistol. There were two bullets in the mag, one in the chamber. Every shot would have to count. He made his way down the stairs, peeking around the corners in case Moshe, or the last Israeli, was waiting to ambush him.

  Mike sat next to the open container leading to the Club K, his hands bound with a zip tie, a gun pressed against his head. Moshe had the gun; most of his body was safe inside the cargo container. He pulled the gun back from Mike’s temple as Ritter neared but kept it pointed in a lethal direction. Mike sat with his head held low, blood dripping from his face unto his wrists.

  “That’s enough,” Moshe said.

  “How’d you know it was a bomb?” Ritter asked.

  “We were the buyer, schmuck. The Koreans screwed up the delivery, then you and that bitch Shannon did us a favor by finding it. Got us the bomb and the delivery system at no cost. Mossad thought it must be God working in our favor,” he said.

  “Your team’s dead, Moshe. Was that worth it?” Ritter asked. The twelfth Israeli was unaccounted for, and Ritter hoped either that Mike had killed him or that he was dead below decks.

  “All our lives are forfeit for the greater good of Israel,” Moshe said. He stepped from the container and knelt behind Mike, using him as a human shield between him a Ritter. He kept his pistol pointed at Mike’s temple. “Problem is, Mike didn’t get the launch codes for us before everything went sideways. So, you’re going to call Shannon and give us the codes, and we’ll let you two live.”

  Mike tapped two fingers onto the knuckles of his right hand. Behind.

  “Moshe, I know Bronislava. She’ll sell you the codes,” Ritter said.

  Moshe’s face contorted with rage, and he extended his arm to point the pistol at Ritter. Mike’s head snapped to the side, and he sank his teeth into Moshe’s arm. Mike shook his head with the furry of a striking crocodile. Moshe dropped his pistol to the ground and struck at Mike.

  Ritter whirled around and found the last Israeli, his rifle aimed at Ritter.

  Ritter fell backward and fired in sync with the Israeli. Ritter’s shot caught the ambusher in the throat. The Israeli hit Ritter in the shoulder.

  Ritter felt the sting of the bullet and fell on his back. He had a half second before the real pain set in. He used his uninjured arm to raise the pistol over his head and rolled onto his side.

  Moshe stood over Mike, who still had his teeth sunk into Moshe’s arm, and was pounding the bound man in the head.

  Ritter shot Moshe in the face. The back of his head burst onto the deck behind them. Moshe stumbled back a step, then toppled over.

  Ritter’s shoulder felt like someone had stuck a red-hot fork in it and started stirring. The bullet had dug a quarter-inch divot from the flesh over his shoulder. It bled freely, and the pain gripped his entire upper body in a vice.

  Mike appeared over him. His lip was split, and blood
had soaked into his beard.

  “You okay?” Ritter asked.

  Mike nodded and slapped a bandage onto Ritter’s wounded shoulder, then put another bandage over that. Mike sat Ritter up and propped him against a cargo container. Mike slouched down next to Ritter and pulled a tin of chewing tobacco from a pocket. He tapped it against his hand with three snaps and pushed a wad of the foul-smelling black bits into his gumline. He held the tin out to Ritter.

  “No, thanks.” Ritter ground his teeth and hissed. His shoulder was spasming.

  “Flesh wound. Don’t be a pussy,” Mike said.

  Ritter focused on his breathing to take his mind away from the pain. They sat in silence for a minute.

  “Hey, you know how to steer this thing?” Ritter asked.

  Mike shook his head and spat on the deck.

  “Cavalry’s coming. Be here in a couple hours,” Mike said.

  “You think we can go home after that?”

  Mike shrugged.

  An hour and a change of blood-soaked bandages later, Mike and Ritter waited at the helipad as a navy Seahawk helicopter approached. Ritter and Mike went to their knees, and Mike put his hands behind his head. Ritter did his best to mimic him with his one good arm.

  Men in gray scale camouflage and ski masks jumped from the Seahawk and pointed MP5s at them. Red dots swirled on Ritter and Mike’s chests.

  One of the masked men approached and yelled, “Garnet!” over the helicopter.

  “Obsidian!” Mike answered.

  The man lowered his weapon. “That’s your ride.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the helicopter, and Ritter let out a long sigh.

  The rest of the new arrivals, anonymous beneath their masks, filed past Ritter and Mike without interest or another word.

  Ritter and Mike climbed into the helicopter. The crew chief had to strap the wounded Ritter to his seat. The sailor refused to speak with, or even look at, Ritter and Mike after they took off from the cargo ship.