by Dale Brown
“Yes, sir,” Jefferson said. He picked up a phone and gave instructions. When he hung up, he said, “I believe the program is still experimental, sir—I don’t think it’s ready for full operational deployment.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Chamberlain said. “Heck, just one or two of those things can do everything a damned truck loaded with troops can do! I want to know everything about it, Sergeant Major—and I want to know how fast we can build more of them.”
The crowd of onlookers and police applauded wildly as Kristen pulled off her radiation suit’s helmet—but the applause and cheering was deafening when the robot assumed a weird stance, a hatch popped open on its back, and Jason Richter climbed out of the machine. Paramedics started to reach for Kristen to help her into a waiting ambulance, but she pushed them away, stepped quickly over to Jason, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him, long and deeply. Jason could do nothing else but enjoy the moment—after all, he thought, these things didn’t normally happen every day at the Army Research Lab. The crowd cheered even louder.
“Thank you, Major Jason Richter, United States Army,” she said between kisses. “You saved my life.” She kissed him again, then took his face in her hands. “And you’re cute, even. I will never forget you, Major Jason Richter. Call me. Please.” Finally, she allowed herself to be pulled away by the paramedics and taken to the ambulance.
“Man oh man, you got the prize of a lifetime—a lip-lock from Kristen Skyy herself!” Ariadna Vega shouted after she pushed her way through the crowd. She was wearing a nuclear-biological-chemical protective suit of her own and was sweating profusely, but she was close enough to ground zero that she decided not to completely take the suit off, even though no one else nearby had one on. “Jason, my man, you were awesome! CID worked great!”
Moments later, their celebration was cut short by two columns of troops, each with infantry rifles, who stepped quickly up and surrounded them. Jason issued a command, and the robot folded itself up into an irregular rectangular box large enough to be carried by him and Ari. They were led to the back of a troop-carrying truck, which was covered with a tarp once they and the folded robot were on board.
Ari’s cell phone was beeping with numerous messages waiting, and while she was listening to them, another call came in. She hardly had a chance to say “Hello” before she handed the phone to Jason. “The boss sounds pissed.”
“Duh.” Jason put the phone up to his lips but not to his ear, expecting the tirade to come. “Major Richter here, sir.”
“What in hell was all that?” screamed Lieutenant Colonel Wayne Farrwood, loud enough to be heard by Ari without the speakerphone. Farrwood was the director of the U.S. Army Research Laboratory Infantry Transformation BattleLab, or ITB, at Fort Polk, Louisiana, near Alexandria. Part of the Joint Readiness Training Center, the ITB was tasked with developing next-generation technology for army ground combat forces. “Who gave you permission to take a classified weapon system all the way to Houston in the middle of a nuclear terrorist attack?”
“Sir, I…”
“Never mind, never mind,” Farrwood interrupted. “If you didn’t get us both shit-canned or thrown into prison, you’ll probably become a national hero. The truck you’re in will take you to the airport and put you and Vega on a military flight. The National Security Adviser wants to talk to us in Washington. Bring the CID unit with you. We’re sending one of the support crew Humvees out on a separate flight.”
“What’s this about, sir?”
“I don’t know, Richter,” Farrwood admitted. “I just hope we’re ready for whatever the hell they have in mind for us.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Pacific Ocean, thirty kilometers west of the Golden Gate Bridge,
San Francisco, California
The next morning
The Gibraltar-flagged cargo ship King Zoser rode at five knots, barely enough to maintain steerageway, in choppy three-to four-meter seas, with waves and wind combining to keep the decks perpetually damp and the men angry. Most of them were manning the starboard rail, either puking or trying to, when the Coast Guard Barracuda-class patrol boat Stingray finally approached.
The King Zoser was a six-thousand-ton cargo ship, heavily laden and lying very low in the heaving water. It had two thirty-meter-tall cranes that could each sling as much as a hundred tons out to fifty meters over the side, making it one of the few older ships on the high seas able to load and offload itself without extensive shore equipment. Its twin nine thousand horsepower diesels propelled it as fast as twenty knots, although it rarely did more than fifteen. It had a ship’s complement of about fifty men and could stay at sea for as long as three weeks.
The Stingray launched a large fast intercept craft from its stern ramp, with three two-person inspection teams, four security officers, the detail commander, and a records officer, plus three K-9s that would accompany the inspection teams. The intercept boat had a .50 caliber machine gun mounted in front, and another Coast Guardsman with an M-16 rifle beside the helmsman. Once alongside the steel-runged ladder on the starboard side of the cargo ship, the boarding party tied off and began climbing the ladder up the vessel’s gray slab hull. The K-9s hopped into large canvas backpacks and were carried up the ladder to the deck.
A Coast Guard lieutenant was the first up the ladder. He nodded formally to the man who approached. The captain of the King Zoser saluted brusquely with two fingers of his right hand. “You are either very brave or very foolhardy,” the man said loudly to make himself heard over the swirling winds, “to board a vessel like this in such rough seas. You would have been better advised to wait until we reached the harbor.”
“Lieutenant Matthew Wilson, executive officer of the Coast Guard patrol vessel Stingray,” the officer responded, returning the captain’s salute. “Operating in such sea conditions is routine for us, sir.”
“Is that so?” The captain sniffed. “I am Yusuf Gemici, master of this vessel. I trust this will not take long. I have a schedule to keep, and I have been at sea for over two weeks.”
“I have checked your manifest filed with the U.S. government,” Wilson said. “All is in order, so this is just a routine prescreening. My headquarters has notified the harbormaster at Richmond that you will be delayed for a routine inspection. Your berth will be waiting for you whenever you arrive. We’ll try not to detain you too long, sir.”
Gemici sniffed again, obviously his signal that he didn’t believe what he was being told. “Very well. You may proceed.”
“I have eleven crew members and three dogs to perform our inspection,” Wilson went on. “We require access to all spaces, berths, and holds. I request one crew member accompany my search teams in order to expedite movement through your vessel. Any crew members we find belowdecks who are not at required duty stations will be detained by my search teams and may be placed under arrest. Do you understand, sir?”
“More delays,” Gemici growled. Wilson looked as if he expected an argument; the master thought it better to change his tone. “Yes, I understand.”
“This is Chief Petty Officer Ralph Steadman, my noncommissioned officer in charge of this detail,” Wilson said, motioning behind him without taking his eyes off the captain, his voice a bit more authoritative now. “If you have any specific questions about this search, you may ask him at any time.”
Gemici looked the CPO over and decided he did not want to get on this man’s bad side. Steadman said nothing and did not offer any greeting, obviously not in a diplomatic mood. He carried an M-16 on a shoulder sling and a sidearm and wore a bulletproof vest under his orange life jacket—obviously Wilson was the good guy, Steadman the bad. The rest of the search teams were likewise heavily armed and outfitted, with stern, determined, no-nonsense expressions. The recent attack in Houston had obviously altered many attitudes about securing the homeland.
“I have no questions,” the skipper said. “My crew will cooperate in any way possible.”
“Very good,” W
ilson said. “If you can lead me to the bridge, sir, I would like to inspect your logbooks, then meet with the crew to check their documents and address any immigration issues.”
“I understand. Buyurunuz.” Gemici used a walkie-talkie and assigned some men to take the search teams where they wanted to go. As they spread out, Gemici noticed the Coast Guardsmen activating small black boxes attached to their life jackets. “What are those devices, Lieutenant?”
“Radiation detectors, sir,” Wilson replied.
“Ah. The attack on your port city of Houston, Texas. Terrible. Terrible.” He spat overboard, being careful to do so with the wind. “Such crazed terrorists hurt all without regard. I curse them all.” Wilson said nothing, but activated his own detection device. “I have been at sea for many days,” he reminded Wilson.
“We’re not singling you out for any particular reason, sir,” Wilson said. “All vessels entering major U.S. ports will be inspected several times before they are allowed to offload their cargo; any vessels already in port will be inspected as well.”
“Evet, anliyorum,” Gemici said, sniffing. “I understand.”
Chief Petty Officer Steadman had gone down to the main deck to check in with the above-deck search team, which was inspecting hundreds of tons of steel pipe and massive house-sized oil field transfer pumps chained to the deck. After asking about their progress, Steadman checked a few of the articles on deck himself. The straight pieces were open and easy to inspect, but the angled pipes and pump flanges were closed with steel security caps, bolted in place and the bolts and nuts sealed by local customs officials with numbered steel wires and lead seals that passed through the bolts, which prevented the nuts from being removed without detection. On an oil pipe with over fifty bolts on it, Steadman checked every third or fourth bolt to save time, examining the seal for the proper registration number and gently tugging on the wire to make sure it was not broken.
After reporting that the above-deck inspection was almost completed, Steadman went belowdecks to check his other inspection teams. These inspections were drier and warmer but not any easier. The usual procedure was to walk slowly up and down the passageways, picking every third or fourth cabin, storage space, or berth to enter and inspect, plus any other suspicious-looking areas such as freezers, flammable-liquid storage areas, and overhead drop ceilings. Each Coast Guard inspection team was briefed daily on the latest intelligence and results of recent searches, which usually provided clues to areas on which to concentrate a search: sometimes patterns emerged, such as using broken-down equipment, “malfunctioning” engines, or spaces with lots of corrosive chemicals in it to throw off a dog’s scent. Searchers were trained to look up as well as look down; they also learned that items were hidden in plain sight as often as they were hidden in the most obnoxious, darkest, smelliest, untouchable places.
As the chief petty officer and senior enlisted man in the inspection team, Steadman tried to show his support for his men by picking the noisiest, smelliest, nastiest places to do his own inspection, which usually meant the propulsion and steering mechanical spaces. But after twenty minutes of careful searching, nothing else showed up. Steadman examined some firefighting equipment that he thought looked odd—finger-to-shoulder heat-resistant gloves, hooded respirator, heat-protective coat, and thick heat-resistant boots, all in a new locker located outside the engine rooms. It was all fairly new and rather high-tech for this ship; only one man, the engineer’s mate, had the key—unusual again, since it might be important for every watch stander to have that key in case of emergency. Steadman made a mental note and moved on.
“Got another weather report from the ship—winds gusting above fifty knots,” Wilson radioed to Steadman after he reported his search of the engine rooms was completed. “Unless you have something special, let’s wrap this up before we’re stuck on this bad boy.”
“Copy.” It was almost time to wrap this search up—but not before he tried one last time to stir up some shit.
Each engine room was supposed to have just one watch stander and one oiler during this inspection, but upon entering the port side engine room, Steadman found a third crewman who was listening to a Walkman and smoking a foul-smelling hand-rolled cigarette, taking some readings from an electrical panel. Without any warning, Steadman pressed the man face-first up against the panel. “Don’t move!” he ordered, placing him in plastic handcuffs. The man was about to struggle, but quickly thought better of it and offered no resistance.
Steadman brought the suspect up to the bridge, still in handcuffs, and his papers were handed to Wilson. “Do you speak English?” Wilson asked.
“Yes.”
He looked carefully at the man’s eyes, then asked him, “Name?”
“Boroshev. Gennadyi Vladomirivich.”
Wilson examined the man’s documents, then turned to the skipper. “Most of your crew is Turkish and Egyptian, but this man is Russian.”
“We have crew members from all over.”
“We asked that only two crewmen remain in each space during the inspection. Why did this man disobey the order?”
“I do not know. Perhaps he thought he was the one who should stay.”
Wilson’s face remained stony, and his eyes locked first on Boroshev’s, then Gemici’s. Both men remained impassive. Wilson radioed in a request for a records check on Boroshev. Like most of the other crew members, his passport and seaman’s license were in horrendous condition, difficult to read and badly weathered. “Skipper, you know that the United States has regulations on the condition of official documents,” he said. “These papers are virtually unreadable. Any documents in this bad a condition will have to be replaced before shore leave for those individuals can be approved.”
“My men are professionals, sir,” Gemici said. “They know the rules, and if they fail to follow them, they must suffer the consequences.” He shook a finger at Boroshev. “Shore leave for you is not approved until suitable replacement documents arrive—which will probably not be on this trip.” Boroshev said nothing, but bowed his head, ashamed of being scolded in front of the American.
“We’ll request a replacement set through the San Francisco consulate—they might have temporary documents waiting for you at your port stop in Victoria,” Wilson offered.
“Bremerton,” Gemici corrected him.
Wilson made a show of checking the manifest, but Gemici was sure he knew his schedule by heart. “Yes, sir. Bremerton,” Wilson said. He stayed very close to Boroshev, putting his radiation detector right in the guy’s face as he scanned as much of his body as possible. The guy was too confused to look nervous. Wilson made a show of staring at the man’s eyes carefully. “This man’s pupils look dilated—pretty unusual for someone who was belowdecks and then outside. “You do drugs, Gennadyi?” He made a tokeing motion with two fingers up to pursed lips. “You like the weed, Gennadyi?”
“No, sir.” A hint of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “I…seasick. Very seasick.”
“Seasick, huh?” He stared at the sweat popping out of his forehead, then glared at Gemici. “You approve of your crewmen using marijuana for seasickness, skipper?”
“My men are professionals, Lieutenant,” Gemici repeated. “While on this ship, their responsibilities are to their captain, their fellow crew members, their ship, their cargo, and themselves, in that order. As long as they do the job, I do not ask questions.”
“What you do on your ship is your business, Captain,” Wilson said, “but if any drugs leave the ship while you’re in an American port, you could be in danger of having your ship and its cargo confiscated.” After a negative watch list message came back from the Stingray, Wilson cut off Boroshev’s plastic handcuffs with a folding knife. “A word to the wise.”
“Yes, sir. I will take care of it.”
A short time later, Steadman radioed to Wilson that they had finished inspecting the ship, checked and verified the crew, and the inspection team assembled on deck awaiting orders. Wilson o
rdered them to start boarding their intercept boat to return to the Stingray, then held out his hand to the skipper. “Thank you very much for your cooperation, sir,” he said to Gemici. “I hope the rest of your trip is safe and successful.”
The skipper sniffed but shook hands anyway. “You be careful riding that little boat of yours back to your patrol vessel, Lieutenant,” he said with a toothy smile. “Gunaydin. Have a nice day.” Wilson nodded, saluted, and was the last man down the ladder. With not some small amount of difficulty, the fast intercept craft detached from the cargo ship and finally rendezvoused with the patrol boat; in very short time the Coast Guard vessel was headed back to shore.
The bottom line, Gemici thought, as he made his way back down to the main deck with Boroshev silently behind him, is that there was simply no way any government agency could search every square centimeter of a ship that was over three hundred meters long and weighed more than six thousand tons. The major items on any inspection—the manifest, the logs, the crew, the cargo, and a visual inspection—could be anticipated and handled easily. Everything else that happened was by pure chance. But the odds favored the smugglers, not the inspectors. Unless they dry-docked this ship and cut it apart with torches, plus emptied out every container and cut open every piece of cargo larger than a suitcase, any skilled smuggler could hide thousands of kilos of anything—or hundreds of men—in it.
Case in point: The chain locker in the bow of the King Zoser. In most ships, the chain locker and anchor mechanical spaces were in the very forward part of the bow; during an inspection, it was a simple matter to open the door, see the tons of chain and the huge electric winches, and move on. They had even put in false walls to make it appear that the hull was sloping in as expected. But there was yet another compartment forward of the chain locker, accessible only through the false walls, that was even bigger than the chain locker.
