Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  “What do you mean?”

  “What would cause the contents of one of those metal containers to be transloaded to another container?”

  “Nothing. They’re already packed.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, if the container was shown at the final inspection to have some structural flaw, maybe. If the dockmaster thought that the container posed a threat to the stability of the stack. I mean, they stack those things up like buildings. If something like that happened, they might halt the loading.”

  Jalal stared at the wall, lost in thought. Badis said, “What are you thinking?”

  Jalal said, “You load the containers, correct?”

  “Well, yes, in a way. I take the containers out of the holding area using a top-pick and transport them to a shuttle carrier, which then takes them to the cranes for loading on the boat.”

  “So this top-pick is like a forklift?”

  “Yes. A giant one, but it lifts from the top. It can transport an entire forty-foot steel CONEX.”

  Jalal lapsed into silence again. Badis said, “What?”

  “Could you get me in during the loading?”

  “Yes, with my visitor badge, but what would you do? You don’t know anything about being a stevedore. Someone will ask what you’re doing there.”

  “You’ll take care of that.”

  “How?”

  “You’re going to lose your job.”

  —

  Six hours later, Badis drove his small pickup truck through the gate of the port of Algeciras, the sixth-busiest port in Europe. At the tip of the Iberian Peninsula in the Strait of Gibraltar, it was the closest operating port to the Maghreb, a mere ten miles to the African coast, and as such, a major transit point from Africa into Europe. Moroccans of all stripes made the daily one-hour ferry commute from Tangier to Algeciras to work in Spain, and this was one of the reasons Jalal had chosen it for infiltration. It had taken two years of work to embed Badis deep within the trust of the port authority, and yet Jalal had never been inside.

  Badis slowed at the primary entrance, but the woman inside the gatehouse barely looked at him. He continued on, driving past the ferry terminal, and Jalal said, “That wasn’t much security.”

  “That’s just to enter the public side. Everyone taking a ferry travels through that gate, so it’s really nothing more than show. The real security is deeper.”

  They hit a traffic circle, and Jalal saw the cranes in the distance, giant booms hanging out over the water. Badis took a road leading to a chain-link fence and another gate, this one with a drop bar, but unmanned. Beyond the fencing were rows of cars. Badis ran his badge over a card reader, and the bar lifted. He pulled in and parked, saying, “This is as close as they let private vehicles get.”

  “How do we get in?”

  “We walk. Make sure that tube doesn’t slip down your pants.”

  Jalal ran his hand down his calf, testing the tape holding it in place. “I’m good.”

  He followed Badis across the lot, hitting another gate, this one only wide enough for pedestrians, manned with a guy in uniform holding a radio.

  Badis nodded at him, waved his badge in front of another card reader, then placed his eyes into what looked like an outsize set of binoculars attached to the wall. A light buzzed green, and the pedestrian gate opened.

  Badis said, “Show him your temporary badge.” Jalal did, and the guard wrote down the number on a clipboard. Badis said, “Orientation night for him.”

  The guard smiled and said, “Good luck with that. Going to be a rough one.”

  Jalal said, “So I’ve heard,” and they were through the gate, into a holding area towering with row after row of twenty-foot and forty-foot SeaLand containers.

  Badis said, “The security here is a separate company from the loaders, so they won’t question your being inside. I’m a top-pick driver, so let me deal with the foreman. I’ll tell him you’re just going to right-seat ride for the night.”

  “Okay.”

  Badis pointed to a small office in the ocean of steel and said, “I need to clock in. Obviously, you can’t do that. Stay out here.”

  Thirty minutes later, Jalal was in a vortex of what looked to him like controlled chaos, top-picks driving back and forth hauling CONEX boxes to shuttle mules, which then took them to the gantry cranes, the cranes never ceasing movement loading the ship.

  Jalal said, “There are four top-pick drivers. How will you guarantee we get the right container?”

  “The way we divided up the lot. Trust me, it looks confusing, but it’ll be our top-pick. You just be ready to help with the reload.”

  Three routes back and forth later, and Badis lifted the steel harness of the top-pick to the rack of containers, pulled one out, then leaned toward the windshield. He said, “This is the one.”

  Jalal rubbed his leg, feeling the tube. He said, “Do it.”

  Badis manipulated the controls, lowering the twenty-foot container until it almost blocked his vision. He began driving toward the shuttle carriers, building up speed, then jerked the vehicle to the left, causing the left side of the container he was carrying to clip the stack in a rending of metal. He immediately backed up, as if shocked, then lowered the container.

  Before the dust had even settled, the dock foreman was outside, screaming his head off. Jalal and Badis exited, seeing the container had a small split along the seams of the corner, the rivets popping out. The foreman began berating Badis, demanding to know if he’d allowed Jalal to work the lift as an apprentice. Badis said no, it was completely his fault.

  The precision timetable of the container loading ground to a halt, and it was a schedule that had to be maintained. The cranes could mount forty containers an hour—and needed to do so to keep the port in operation. Now they had a problem, because it wasn’t a misstep of paperwork on the part of the freight forwarders or an error of the company that contracted the port for shipping—it was the port operation itself, and they would pay a hefty penalty for this load not making the ship.

  Something Badis knew all about.

  In short order, an empty container was brought out, and as the ship was being loaded with all the other containers, men simultaneously manhandled the freight from the damaged container to a new one. Including Badis and Jalal.

  Passing across boxes of linens and crates of plastic donkeys from China, Badis finally hit the crate he wanted: one that looked like all the others but was decidedly different in composition. He said, “Jalal, help me with this one.”

  Jalal felt the sweat break out on his neck, looking at the four guards watching the transfer. He nodded, picking up one side of a wooden-crated box four feet square. They walked past the guards and entered the container, moving to the rear. They sat it on top of a similar crate, and Jalal hissed, “Block their view.”

  Badis turned around, the harsh lights of the port leaving him in stark silhouette. On his knees, Jalal stuck his hand under the leg of his jeans and ripped the tube free, stifling a scream as it took his hair with it. In between the wood slats, he jabbed a hole in the paper wrapping and shoved the tube through.

  He had no idea if it was close enough to the explosives to do the damage he wanted, and he feared it would simply be launched intact into space. But it was all he could do.

  He stood up and nodded at Badis, and they continued loading. Forty minutes later, they watched the security team seal the new container, a cable band placed on the locking mechanism and the number recorded.

  Twenty minutes after that, it was transferred to the ship. One container out of millions that traversed the high seas, the last one loaded on a ship crossing the ocean toward the port at Los Angeles. The event would be logged, as were all anomalies, but the ship would sail. After all, there were schedules to keep.

  When the loading was complete, the dock foreman said,
“Badis, you’ve been a hard worker, but I can’t protect you from this. Too much potential monetary loss. The container you were lifting was destroyed and we almost missed the departure of the ship.”

  Badis said, “I understand, and I don’t blame you. It was my mistake.”

  The foreman said, “I’ll vouch for you. I don’t want to lose you.” He jerked a thumb to Jalal and said, “This guy, on the other hand, can head on back to where he came from. He knows shit about port operations. We hire him, and it will be a disaster every night.”

  Jalal said, “Not every night, I promise.”

  23

  I could hear the rest of the team behind me, all nervously fidgeting in their seats as the screen cleared on our VPN. The first person I saw was Creed, who said, “Hey, Pike. Kurt will be here in a minute. He got held up somewhere.”

  Creed’s statement was promising. I’d sent a detailed situation report last night and then had gone to bed. When I’d awoken this morning, all I had in my inbox was a curt message saying that I was to connect for a video teleconference via an encrypted virtual private network. No mention as to why.

  The consensus from the team was that I was going to get flayed alive by Kurt, but Creed would have known that and would have said something to that effect as soon as he saw me.

  I said, “Did Kurt get a chance to read the SITREP I sent?”

  “Yeah. He did. I guess I should warn you, that might be an issue for continued operations. You’ve already upset the applecart in Spain, so he might have to pull you instead of following through on your request.”

  That’s it? He’s just worried about operational security?

  Being proactive in my defense, I said, “We already know the lay of the land; swapping me out with another team isn’t the way to go. There’s no footprint of our involvement.”

  Before Creed could answer, I saw a shadow behind him, then heard him say, “Hey, sir. Pike’s up.”

  Kurt Hale sat down in front of the camera. Here we go . . .

  He turned away from the camera and said, “Everyone but George leave the room.”

  Ordering everyone out but the deputy commander could be good or bad, like getting an ace on the first card of blackjack. After the door closed, he returned to the screen and said, “Who’s in the room with you?”

  “Everyone. Jennifer, Knuckles, Veep, and Retro. They’re just too chickenshit to get on camera.”

  “Good. So I don’t have to worry about you twisting up my words when you brief them, like you did with this SITREP.”

  I said, “Sir?”

  He shook his head, saying, “Really, Pike? You were following the target and got captured? Without any intervention of the team? Just you and Jennifer?”

  “Well . . .”

  He held up a palm and said, “I’m not even going to ask you flat out what happened.”

  “Sir, it seriously did go bad. I mean, I didn’t expect it to, I thought I could control the outcome, but I was wrong, so, yes, that was a mistake, but they brought it on themselves. It wasn’t like I jumped in their van and started spitting on them. They did what they did. I really didn’t mean for the damage to come about.”

  He tapped his fingers on the desktop and said, “Two civilians dead, two civilians crippled. It doesn’t look surgical from my optic.”

  Which, reading between the lines, was a key phrase. My optic. I said, “But it doesn’t bother the Oversight Council?”

  He grinned and said, “You had better relish your brief moment in the glowing embrace. President Hannister doesn’t care, and because he doesn’t care, neither does the Oversight Council.”

  Taken aback, I said, “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. You’ve managed what I haven’t been able to do in eight years. The president of the United States is willing to take your SITREP at face value. A drug ring destroyed after attempting to kill Taskforce personnel? No, he doesn’t care. All he cared about was whether you were compromised, and I take it you weren’t.”

  Will wonders never cease . . .

  “No, sir, of course we weren’t. It was all detailed in the SITREP.”

  While I would fudge—and had fudged in the past—the circumstances that led up to an operation, I would never, ever falsify the detail of the action itself. It was a bedrock principle of the Taskforce, and Kurt knew it. If we’d been compromised, or if the hit had gone horribly wrong, I would have outlined that in painful detail—even if it caused my firing.

  I reiterated, “Sir, we’re as clean as the driven snow. Nothing at all to connect us to that action. I’m assuming you turned over my intel to the host nation, correct?”

  Kurt said, “We did. We laundered it through DOJ staff in the embassy, using the real DEA liaison, and sure as shit, they found a ton of stuff in that apartment, but it’s all drug related. Just like your SITREP. I’m having a hard time even wanting to convince the Oversight Council to let you continue. We aren’t the DEA.”

  “Except for that bank account. It has nothing to do with drugs.”

  Kurt leaned back for a moment, then said, “Pike, I’m torn here. I could go ask for further exploration, but if I do, I’m leaning toward a new team. Someone fresh. I know you say you’re clean, but you’re leaving a trail just by existing, digital and otherwise. You have a footprint in Madrid, and moving on to Granada will just add to the number of threads they can piece together. Especially if you find something and need to action that intelligence.”

  At that point, I knew I’d won. I’d started this VPN session worried that I’d be jerked back to the US forthwith, and now all I had was Kurt worried about my footprint. If Kurt wasn’t barbecuing me for my actions in Madrid, he would collapse under the weight of my incredibly intelligent argument. All I needed to do was present it in the most compelling way possible, detailing how I was the only person on the earth who could solve the problem.

  I said, “That’s bullshit, sir, and you know it.”

  I saw his face contort in anger and prepared myself for the debate, one I’d had many times in the past with this very same man. I started to continue with my inevitable mass assault on his argument, knowing I would wear him down, and heard Jennifer hiss at me. I flipped my head to her, and she said, “Don’t say another word. You’ll bury us.”

  I waved my hands like I was washing a window and hissed back, “What are you talking about?”

  On the computer, Kurt said, “What was that?”

  I flipped back to the screen, then heard another bark from the peanut gallery. I turned back to the team and Kurt said, “What the hell is going on?”

  Knuckles said, “Don’t go where you’re about to. I’ve seen this show a hundred times. You aren’t going to win by bludgeoning him. You need to win on the merits. On logic. Not on how much you can bark.”

  I put my hand over the microphone of the computer and said, “What the hell are you guys doing? We’re about to win.”

  Knuckles said, “No, we’re not. We’re about to be ordered home because you’re stubborn. Back away from the computer. Let Jennifer give it a go.”

  “Why?”

  Jennifer locked eyes with me and said, “Because you’ll make this personal. All about you and your intuition. We all believe, but you’ll piss off Kurt, and we’ll be taking the Rock Star bird home. Come on, honey, let me do this.”

  My eyes snapped open at the “honey” comment, and Jennifer realized her mistake.

  Knuckles saw my reaction and said, “Don’t go there. Ordinarily, I’d take you to task for her statement, but I happen to believe you’re actually on to something here. Don’t turn this into a fight to prove who’s in charge. Let her get on camera. Now.”

  24

  Johan idly watched a small boy kick around a rubber ball, the mother keeping a close eye on the youth, especially when the ball rolled to Johan’s bench. Johan tossed it back
to the kid and smiled at the mother. She gave him a small wave in return, but not in a friendly way. Johan worried about the exchange. Not because it was significant, but because he might be remembered, and his next actions could make that problematic.

  He was sitting on an iron bench inside an expanse of green called the Commonwealth Park, watching a door that housed his target, so close to the ocean he could smell the salt in the air. He’d been there a good two hours, and it certainly didn’t escape him that he might look like a pedophile by spending his time surrounded by children in the largest park on the Rock of Gibraltar. But, given the trade-offs, he couldn’t believe how lucky he had been, as the park was adjacent to the single-door entrance to the office of Mint Tea Maintenance. A happy coincidence, given his lack of detailed planning.

  He’d flown into Madrid last night from JFK airport in New York, eschewing landing in Gibraltar itself, preferring not to have his information on any manifests that connected him to the territory. Madrid was only a couple of hours to the north, but an entire country away as far as immigration records were concerned. He’d rented a car, driving straight south to the fabled Rock of Gibraltar, holding a small nagging doubt throughout the trip that he might need a special visa to visit. He’d Googled that and believed he was good, but the truth would be at the point of entry.

  The one sore point of Johan’s international work was the fact that not many first-world countries allowed a South African citizen to enter without preapproval, a by-product of the country’s tumultuous past. Unlike an American citizen, who could travel pretty much freely to any state in Europe, a South African had to have a reason.

  Johan’s passport was littered with visas: an H-1B worker’s permit from the United States, a Schengen visa for the twenty-six member nations in Europe, and a United Kingdom ancestry visa, obtained as a part of his Commonwealth heritage, as he was lucky enough to have a grandfather on his mother’s side born in Great Britain. While the Schengen visa allowed him entry into Spain, he hoped the ancestry visa worked for Gibraltar.