Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  He dialed the phone, hearing it ring. Eventually, a suspicious voice said, “Hello?”

  “Anwar, this is Tariq. I have some instructions.”

  69

  From the bridge, Mitchell Redwing could see Huntington Beach on the starboard side and could barely make out the gantry cranes of the port of Los Angeles past the bow, both because of the distance and because they were obscured by four other vessels waiting their turn to be searched. Off the port side he saw a much larger container ship bypass their conga line and continue to the port. He said, “How come the other ships are allowed in?”

  Biggs, the first mate of the vessel, said, “It’s something to do with the port of Panama. The other ships are from the Far East, so they’re letting them in.”

  The closest ship to them had a US Coast Guard cutter alongside it, and Mitchell could see a group of men swarming around a container stack. He said, “How long are we supposed to wait here?”

  “Until they’re through with that ship. Then they’ll come to us. They’re here to run some sort of test or inspection on our containers.”

  “They’re going to do each and every one?”

  “Apparently so.”

  With the ship holding upward of three thousand containers, Mitch knew they might not make it into port tonight. He checked his phone for signal, then texted his girlfriend, letting her know he would probably miss their date.

  Biggs said, “Call the captain. Looks like they’re headed this way.”

  Mitchell put away his phone and saw a group of men in blue descend a ladder to the cutter. Twenty minutes later, they were pulling alongside, a small contingent from his ship ready to meet them, led by the captain of the vessel himself.

  The first man up the ladder was a Coast Guard lieutenant commander named Marks, followed by a small platoon of men, some struggling under equipment bags. Mitchell noticed that at least five were civilians.

  Marks stuck out his hand and said, “Captain, I’m sorry about the trouble, but we’ve received some information about a possible terrorist device being smuggled out of Panama. Before you can proceed, we need to inspect each container.”

  “That’s physically impossible. There’s absolutely no way to inspect each one without unloading. I can’t even open the containers while they’re stacked on my deck.”

  “Sir, I understand. The threat is radiological. We don’t need to enter; we just need to get to the outside and test.”

  “Radiological? What do you mean?”

  “Sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss the full parameters. I just need your help to get you on your way. Four of these men will go through your paperwork, and the six you see breaking out the detectors will go through your ship.”

  Mitchell saw each man powering up and testing what resembled a handheld spotlight, like a modified Q-beam, with an LCD display attached to the head and a pistol grip sprouting below it.

  The captain nodded and said, “My first mate will show you the paperwork. Mitchell here will guide you through the ship. Where would you like to start?”

  “Wherever you think is best.”

  —

  Two hours later, with the sun beginning its inevitable slide into the Pacific Ocean, Mitchell stood off to the side, watching the six engineers place their radiological detection devices against a container, take a reading, then move on. Some were tasked with climbing the stacks, the containers piled five high on the deck, forcing the use of ridiculous safety lines and climbing gear, which did nothing but slow the process down. He wished he could give his Filipino seamen a lesson on the device, then turn them free. It would take half the time.

  His radio crackled from the first mate. “Mitchell, how’s it going? Over.”

  “Slow and steady. We’re about finished with the deck, but still need to do the hold, over.”

  “Okay. The captain is considering allowing nonessential crew to disembark. Anyone you want to nominate? Over.”

  “Martin. His mother is in the hospital, and we can risk losing him for the small duration we’re out here, over.”

  “Don’t think the captain will think highly of losing an engineer, but I’ll ask, over.”

  Mitchell heard one of the survey technicians shout, pointing at the base container of the corner stack at the bow of the ship. He clicked the handheld and said, “Hang on. Something is happening, over.”

  One of the technicians ran up to him, saying, “We have a gamma emitter in that container. The survey equipment is saying it’s a radioisotope consistent with cobalt 60.”

  Befuddled, Mitchell said, “What the hell does all of that mean?”

  “It means you’re carrying a dirty bomb, and we need to get this ship moving out to sea.”

  Mitchell said, “Dirty bomb? What are you talking about?”

  He looked at the men on the bow of the ship, taking repeated readings of the base container. Before the technician could respond, the container turned into a ball of fire, the rear exploding out and shredding the circle of men.

  Slack-jawed, Mitchell watched one scientist cut in half, his upper body clawing the deck, pulling himself forward and leaving a trail of intestines. Another, his body in flames, ran around screaming, then collapsed, his blackened face crusting with blood.

  The base container, with smoke billowing out of it, began to collapse in on itself like a beer can being crushed by a giant, causing the four containers above, each weighing twenty tons, to heel over and hammer the next stack. The domino effect caused that stack to topple, hitting the one that Mitchell was standing next to. He shoved the technician forward, screaming, “Run!”

  He made it five feet before the corner of a container drove him into the deck, the force of gravity slamming twenty tons of steel into his fragile body, turning it into an unrecognizable grease smear.

  70

  I watched the man close the surf shop, knowing I was about to cross a line, but I liked it. The author H. L. Mencken once wrote, “Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.”

  And he was right. Well, except for the slitting-throats part. When your “normal” life included the ability to do such a thing, you had to rely on your own self-restraint, or lose the moral compass that separated an Operator from Blackbeard.

  The man went to the rear parking lot, disappearing from view in the darkness. I heard Jennifer say, “Pike, Carly, this is Koko. He’s unlocking a Volvo SUV. He’s going to be on the move soon. Get ready.”

  I said, “Knuckles, you got a view?”

  “No, but he can only leave one way. I’ll shadow him, don’t worry.”

  I said, “Roger that,” and Jennifer came back on. “Pike, last chance to stop this juvenile thing.”

  We’d come down to Norfolk from DC in the early afternoon, ostensibly for a double date on leave to Virginia Beach, and I was a little surprised that Kurt had given Knuckles permission. The Taskforce was forbidden from working on US soil precisely because we were operating outside the supreme law of the land—the US Constitution. When the Taskforce had been formed, Kurt had insisted on the CONUS restriction in the charter precisely to avoid turning into something like the DGST in Morocco, where anything could be justified to secure the peace. It looked like he was getting a little loose in his old age.

  That was a joke, of course, because I knew why; it was because he trusted Knuckles and me. Nothing more than that. The rules were made for a framework devoid of individual character, and he knew we wouldn’t take advantage of the freedom. He also wasn’t convinced Los Angeles was the end of the threat.

  The news reports were absolutely melting down about the strike earlier in the day, no pun intended; luckily, Knuckles and Carly’s early warning had managed to avoid an unmitigated disaster. The ship itself had become a floating Hiroshima, with the loss of half the crew. Half who w
ere immediately dead, anyway. It would have been a hell of a lot worse had that ship been allowed to reach port.

  We’d left Kurt to work the Los Angeles problem and had traveled straight to the water-sports shop on Virginia Beach. The FBI had said there was no terrorist connection, but I’d learned that they hadn’t even taken the time to go to the place. All they had done was check out the bona fides of the shop—and it, of course, had come up clean. They couldn’t see any reason for a terrorist group to vacation at a surf shop, so they’d dropped it. Truthfully, I couldn’t either, but it was worth investigating in person.

  We’d gone in, asking about renting a few paddleboards. We couldn’t flash a badge and start asking questions, so I’d told both Carly and Jennifer to try to find out about any unusual activity involving unknown Arab males. I figured we’d have to attack the problem from a hundred different angles, talking to more than one employee, but it turned out to be much easier than that.

  While we were perusing the brochures with a twenty-something who was channeling Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, a decidedly skeevy-looking guy came in, sporting dreadlocks, a T-shirt with more holes than fabric, and long, dirty toenails slammed into Nike shower shoes. The Spicoli look-alike took one look at him, then proved he was more than an airhead surfer. He walked over and firmly ran the guy out of the store.

  He apologized, saying, “Sometimes that leech tries to steal stuff while I’m with customers, but it’s not what the beach is really like.”

  Jennifer said, “I bet you deal with weirdos in this place all the time.”

  Out of the blue, he said, “Yeah, more than I like. Just a few days ago, I had these three guys from the Middle East come in who barely spoke English. They looked like they’d bought their beachwear at a Target store five minutes before showing up. But most of the folks are like you guys. Just people looking for a good time.”

  Carly said, “Were they Americans?”

  “No way. They used passports as identification for the rentals. They were from Saudi Arabia.”

  “Well, maybe they don’t get this kind of fun over there. What did they do?”

  “Two days in a row they rented three Sea-Doo watercraft for two hours each day. A lot of money. All they wanted to do was ride around in circles or race each other.”

  He glanced at us conspiratorially and said, “I thought about reporting them, you know, because they were Arabs.”

  “Did they do anything wrong? Make you think they were up to something?”

  “No. That’s why I didn’t. I don’t want to be accused of racial profiling some prince from Saudi Arabia. All they did was run around in the water, like everyone else. Anyway, they had an address for a rental house here, so it seemed on the up-and-up.”

  I said, “What kind of Sea-Doo? That sounds more like something I’d want to do. Screw this paddleboard stuff.”

  He laughed, saying, “I hear you. They’re a hell of a lot more fun.”

  He turned to the rack of brochures, and I leaned in to Jennifer, whispering, “When we fill out the forms, see where he puts them.”

  She nodded imperceptibly. He turned back around, showing us the packages, which included tours, dolphin sightings, or just plain running around on your own. I said, “We’ll take the same package those Arab guys had.”

  “You want two hours? That’s a long time to be out on the water.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Take a half hour. If you want more, come on back. Those Arabs were out there like they were practicing for NASCAR or something. You’ll probably be done in a half hour.”

  Knuckles glanced at me, and we were thinking the same thing: They weren’t here for fun. I said, “We’ll take the half hour.”

  We filled out the forms, showing identification and leaving an address and a deposit. I said, “So those Arabs put down a Saudi Arabian address?”

  “No. They’re apparently vacationing across the way, near the port.”

  That was all I needed to hear. We finished, and I kept the conversation going, distracting the guy while Jennifer got an eye from around the counter, seeing where he filed the paperwork.

  We’d spent our thirty minutes on the machines, then retired back to our hotel, considering our next move.

  I said, “I’m for cracking that place and getting the contracts. The odds are, they put down a fake address, but at least we’ll have the passport information.”

  Carly said, “I’m with you. If they have an attack planned soon, they might have used their real address, not wanting to arouse suspicion with a fake one. They have no idea how those addresses would be checked out and might have worried about something like the DGST would have done in Morocco.”

  Knuckles said, “We can’t do that. I promised Kurt. I need to call him before.”

  He had always been a little bit tighter with the rules than me, but in this case, it was his show. He’d gotten the permission, and it wasn’t my word on the line.

  I said, “I agree. You want to call, or do you want me to?”

  He looked relieved, thinking I’d fight him. He said, “Let me do it.”

  Jennifer said, “But why on earth were they riding Jet Skis? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Carly said, “Maybe the Jet Skis were just what I said earlier. Maybe they’ve never gotten to do such a thing in Morocco. Remember, they’re Berbers from the Rif. Maybe they just wanted to experience it before doing something heinous. They’re human after all.”

  Knuckles said, “Maybe the Jet Skis are the weapon.”

  “Bingo,” I said. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Which is why we need to get in that place.”

  Jennifer said, “Wait, logically, that doesn’t make any sense. They can’t turn a rental into a weapon unless they stole it and rigged it with explosives somewhere else, and they didn’t do that. Which means if they intend to do as you say, they must have their own already—and if they have their own Sea-Doo, why rent them at all and risk exposure?”

  I said, “Too little information for an answer. But it’s enough smoke to ask to be the fireman. Knuckles?”

  He nodded, calling Kurt. Before the line answered, I hovered around him like a mother watching a stranger holding her baby. I said, “Don’t make it sound like it’s a big deal. We saw the security on the inside. Tell him it’s an in and out. Easy pickings. Tell him—”

  He cut me off with a finger, and I heard, “Sir, it’s Knuckles. You told me to call if I found anything. Well, we found something.”

  He went through the sequence of events, describing what we wanted to do. There was a little bit of back-and-forth, and from Knuckles’s end, I could tell it was centered on alerting the FBI or letting us do it. In the end, the timeline won Kurt over. The FBI wouldn’t check out those receipts until they had a warrant, and that warrant wouldn’t occur until we could wash the information of Taskforce fingerprints, which meant it would be serviced in three days, if we were lucky. Given the attack in LA, the map of Norfolk we found in Morocco, and the fact that three Arabs were here with Saudi Arabian passports, it was enough.

  I knew Kurt was putting his ass on the line here, but I also understood he regarded the mission of saving lives as something sacrosanct. His career would always take a backseat.

  I heard the conversation going our way, and then Knuckles surprised me, taking it one step further. He said, “Sir, we came down here without weapons.”

  He listened for a bit, then said, “Yeah, yeah, sir. I got that. We aren’t operational, but . . . we might be. I’m not asking for anything in the Taskforce arsenal. I’m just giving you a warning order that I might be reaching out to some friends around here.”

  He looked at me and grinned, listening to the phone. “Yes, sir. They would be friends at Little Creek.”

  And I understood what he was asking, given his SEAL pedigree. Naval Spe
cial Warfare Group 2, which was responsible for almost all East Coast SEAL teams, was within spitting distance of us.

  He talked a little bit more, and hung up. I said, “We’re good?”

  “Yeah. He seems to trust me more than you for some reason.”

  I laughed, then said, “What was that about weapons?”

  “He’s not real happy about that, but he didn’t tell me no. Sending us weapons would be admitting preplanned Taskforce involvement against our charter, but apparently letting me smooth talk some friends is okay.”

  I said, “Your issue was even bringing it up.” Meaning I’d have just done it.

  He said, “Yeah, well, I don’t roll that way. I gave him my word.”

  I nodded. His instincts had kept me out of trouble more than once, so I wasn’t going to fight him here. Hell, I wouldn’t fight him at all, and he knew it.

  I sent him on his way to the Little Creek naval base just down the road to use his SEAL undercover-brother connections. He’d set up a meeting with some master chief he’d called on the phone, and I’d taken Carly and Jennifer on a reconnaissance to determine our plan of attack.

  71

  We returned to the water-sports shop, this time looking for vulnerabilities on the outside, and found a single one. There was a shed to the side that housed all of the rental equipment, including the watercraft, and it was wired to the max, with cameras and a state-of-the-art alarm system. The main office was a two-story affair with wooden shingles, weathered wooden siding, and a faux lighthouse on the end.

  Unlike the shed, it had a single camera inside and flimsy door and window contacts from an older alarm system—on every entrance except one. At the southern side, in between the office and the shed, there was a window that wasn’t wired. It was eight feet off the ground, and small, most likely for a bathroom or storage closet. From its height and size, it must not have looked like a vulnerability, because only a child could get through it. Or a smaller woman, like Carly. She was only five feet three and would fit.