by Bobby Akart
Hunter looked down the line of operatives and found Jackson. He flipped him a bird and responded, “All my fingers are still working, Thriller.”
Thriller was the call sign for Jackson, paying homage to Michael Jackson, one of his favorite music artists who had died years before. Jackson was the best of the best when it came to parachuting. He’d performed several challenging insertions during rescue missions in the Middle East.
Other members of the team were former SEALs who’d also been part of the U.S. Navy’s Leap Frogs, a team of parachutists who traveled the country, performing at baseball games, NASCAR races and, in a few days, at the opening of the Atlanta Olympiad.
Jackson shot back, “Well, look at Delta. He can count to one still. Maybe that lick he put on the deck knocked some sense into him so he can count to two next time.”
Hunter was known as Delta based upon his prior military service. Khan was called Genghis, as in the former ruler of the Mongol Empire.
In order to join Hunter, Khan slipped around two members of the team, remaining as close to the ship’s massive center structure as he could. He was always the strong, silent type, especially when on a mission.
In a perfect world, the team would’ve spent weeks training on a similar freighter, practicing their landing as well as the scenarios they might face working their way through the ship. With each passing day, terrorists were infiltrating America, dispersing a deadly plague bacteria among innocent people, who themselves would become weapons of mass destruction. There simply wasn’t time for training, only action.
The operatives wore black tactical clothing and their faces were also covered with dark face paint. In the middle of a moonless night, it was difficult to see one another within the twenty-foot span of deck. They were facing the foredeck, where just a week before, a thousand terrorists said their prayers before undertaking the Final Jihad. Tonight, there wasn’t a soul in sight. It was time to move inside.
Signaling for the team to follow, Hunter moved toward the port side of the vessel and crept around the superstructure toward an exterior stairwell that led to the lower decks. This mission depended upon speed, strength, surprise, and aggression to achieve the necessary result. The SEALs and Delta Force operatives were trained in the concept of violence of action. Any fighting technique was considered useless unless the operators totally committed to the annihilation of the enemy. Hunter had absolute confidence in this six-man team to fulfill this commitment.
Hunter and the team reached the second level below deck and pulled up just short of the steel door that would allow them inside. He held a fist up, instructing them to stop. He tested the handle and found it to be unlocked.
They prepared to embark into the unknown. The team still had the element of surprise on their side, but they had no idea who or what awaited them on the other side of the steel door. Hunter gripped the handle and announced to his team over the radio, “We’re a go.”
“Roger that,” came the response. The six men were divided into three teams, with Hunter and Khan taking the second level below deck, where the laboratory was presumed to be. Jackson and another man would move upward toward the bridge while the remaining two men would move deeper into the ship to clear the sleeping quarters.
Clearing a ship of this size would take a considerable amount of time, but the stated goal of retrieving intelligence before sinking the vessel required safety from interruptions in the form of a bullet in the back. The time taken to eliminate threats was a necessary evil but also the operatives’ favorite part of the job.
“Okay, let’s send them to meet their virgins,” said Hunter into the comms as he gripped the handle of the door with his left hand—his weapon leading the way in his right.
Chapter 14
Day Thirty-Three
The Tasallul
Gulf of Mexico
Based upon the schematic they’d received via the State Department, a large open area that might be the location of the laboratory was located toward the rear of the freighter. The ladders and elevators leading to the bridge were to the left a few feet. Jackson and his partner immediately moved in that direction, as did the other two members of the team responsible for the lower two decks and the engine room.
Hunter secured the hatch after the team had entered and pressed themselves against the bulkhead. Each team immediately started their task. Hunter and Khan gave the other teams time to get into place before they proceeded toward the rear of the ship.
“Contact,” said one of the operatives on the lower deck within seconds of their entering the passageway. “Tango down.”
Khan led the way, his weapon swinging from side to side as Hunter followed, walking backwards. They found their first door labeled in Arabic.
“The head,” whispered Khan.
Hunter nodded in response and held up three fingers. He counted them down—two, then one. Khan burst through the door and Hunter quickly followed. The man on the latrine never had a chance. Khan hit the trigger twice and sent two suppressed rounds from the MP5 through the man’s forehead, killing him instantly. The man’s bowels released after his body slumped forward onto the floor.
Khan and Hunter exited the restroom and continued down the passageway, periodically glancing out of the portholes to check for hostiles outside. They proceeded to the next set of doors, which both contained portholes enabling the two operatives to peer inside. It was the mess hall.
Khan nodded and Hunter eased the door open, allowing Khan to burst through. Khan surveyed the room from the left corner back toward the center while Hunter did the same on the right side. It was empty.
They carefully made their way toward the kitchen, constantly checking their backs. Like before, they burst into the cooking area, but found no one.
“Ali Baba down, times two,” said Jackson into the comms. Hunter and Khan looked at each other and smiled. Despite the risk of death, the man maintained his sense of humor throughout.
“Khan, from the ship’s diagram, I think our next stop is what we’re looking for,” said Hunter.
“Agreed.”
“The ship appears to be relatively unmanned,” said Hunter. “Should we try to keep a hostage? You know, turn the screws and see what he knows?”
“Outside the scope of the mission,” Khan replied under his breath.
“Okay, roger that. After you, Genghis.”
Khan led them another forty feet until they reached the area where the laboratory was expected to be. The doors were chained together and locked.
“Now what?” asked Khan.
“Let’s see if there’s another entry on the starboard side,” replied Hunter.
Again, they made their way through the ship, and as they turned toward the left, two terrorists stood on the rear deck, smoking cigarettes.
“My turn,” said Hunter, who moved past Khan. The men were armed, but their AK-47s were slung over their shoulders. They never knew what hit them as Hunter fired rounds into the backs of their skulls. In his mind, they didn’t deserve the respect of being shot while facing their attacker.
One man slumped to the deck and received another shot in the head for his efforts. The other man swung around, tumbled over the rail, and fell sixty feet to his death in the turbulent water created by the freighter’s propellers.
Khan rummaged through the dead man’s clothes and found a set of keys. He held them up to Hunter, with a smile. “Maybe?”
“Let’s give ’em a try,” Hunter replied.
Hunter checked his watch. It had only been eleven minutes since they’d entered the vessel. He held Khan in position in order to allow the other teams to make more headway on clearing their areas. Hunter had expected the lab to be heavily guarded. In actuality, the terrorists had left that job to a heavy chain and a padlock. They didn’t anticipate anyone taking the key.
“Another Muj bites the dust, and we’re clear on the bridge,” announced Jackson, using the slang term for a Mujahadeen, a person who waged jihad. Jackson had spe
nt a considerable amount of time in Iraq in 2005, where the term, pronounced mooj, was often used.
“Taco, sitrep?” asked Hunter through the comms. Taco was the code name assigned to Bell.
“Sleeping quarters clear,” Bell replied. “Four tangoes are in the bag. Level three is clear. En route to engine room on L-4.”
“Thriller, sitrep?” Hunter called out to Jackson.
“Waitin’ on you fools,” came a not-too-unexpected response. Jackson prided himself on his Mr. T impersonations from the classic A-Team program. He actually resembled the actor who had played B. A. Baracus on the show, without the gaudy jewelry.
“Stand by,” replied Hunter, shaking his head with a smile. This mission had the potential to get them all killed, but now the team was relaxed as they did the job they were trained for.
Suddenly, voices could be heard walking through the ship along the starboard side. Two or three men were arguing in Arabic. Hunter looked to Khan, who whispered into his mic, “They’re arguing about Bastra.”
Hunter shrugged and gave Khan a puzzled look.
Khan continued. “It’s a card game, like Casino. It’s best played in teams of two.”
“Four hostiles?”
“Probably,” answered Khan.
Whatever the argument was about, Hunter had no idea nor did he care. It would be the last words they spoke. Hunter gestured to Khan to take a position in the port-side hallway. Hunter would move back onto the rear deck.
After a game of cards and a healthy argument, most men would seek fresh air and a smoke. Hunter would be waiting for them. If they kept going around the second level, they’d be greeted with bullets to the head from Khan.
Khan and Hunter took up positions. Hunter returned to the salty air outside and hid behind a massive upright support flanking the aft deck. He was ready.
As the men exited the hatch, they continued their playful banter and approached the rail, where they lit up their cigarettes. Taking a deep breath, Hunter slowly calmed himself and exhaled. He spun into the open and opened fire on the men, who were thirty feet away. The automatic weapon did its job, quickly planting shots in the chests of the terrorists followed by precisely placed shots in their heads. Eight rounds in less than four seconds. Even if they were carrying weapons, the men never had a chance.
“Six al-Baghdadis bagged,” said Hunter into his microphone. “Jackson report to L-2. Taco, sit rep.”
“Quiet as a mouse down here,” came the reply.
Hunter reentered the freighter and found Khan. “Let’s wait for Jackson to return and watch our six while we see what’s inside.”
“Suits?”
“Oh yeah, doctor’s orders.” Hunter laughed.
Chapter 15
Day Thirty-Three
The Tasallul
Gulf of Mexico
Hunter and Khan had crammed lightweight personal protective equipment in their packs for when they entered the laboratory. There was plenty of uncertainty as to whether the plague bacteria had been handled properly, and with terrorists, you never knew if there was a suicide bomber or an improvised explosive device on the other side of the door.
They dug through their gear and put on their gloves, suits, head covers, masks, N95 respirators, eye protection, and goggles. Hunter and Khan checked each other for gaps and used duct tape to seal any openings. When the men were ready, they prepared their weapons and waited for Jackson to unlock the padlock to grant them entry into the lab. This time, he performed the task in all seriousness, jokes aside. The entire team knew the danger that might lurk behind the doors.
Hunter swiftly moved inside to the right of the entry the best he could in the bulky gear. Khan slid toward the left, his weapon ready to eliminate any threat. Quickly, but quietly, they inched in opposite directions around a glass-enclosed, professional-looking laboratory with a number of stations containing microscopes and centrifuge devices lined up along the outside.
In the center of the lab were half a dozen steel tables, similar to those found in a restaurant prep area. Cases of vials with rubber caps were stashed under the tables while several empty ones were lined up on top of the table, waiting to be filled.
The workspace was remarkably clean and orderly. Neither Hunter nor Khan found any signs of life. The two men worked in opposite directions, and when they met on the starboard side of the large space, they discovered a series of doors that resembled the entry doors to a restaurant cooler used for food storage.
Two of the three doors were unlocked and empty inside except some wire shelving. The third door was closed and locked shut with an unfastened padlock, which effectively prevented the handle from operating.
Khan carefully pulled the shank through the hole, freeing up the handle. He nodded to Hunter and ripped the door open. Hunter moved into the opening and prepared to open fire—upon four dead bodies piled on the floor. Cold air rushed out of the large freezer, causing Hunter to back out of the opening. He and Khan confirmed that no one else was in the cooler and flicked on a light switch.
The thermometer next to the switch indicated zero degrees Fahrenheit.
“Dead, don’t you think?” asked Hunter.
“Should I even bother to check? Or you want me to put a round in them?” asked Khan.
“No, leave them be. I guess they outlived their usefulness. Lock it back up and let’s see what’s in the lab.”
The men made their way to an airlock entry and worked together to operate the controls. Everything was labeled in Arabic, which made Khan a tremendous asset under the circumstances.
Hunter and Khan methodically worked their way through the lab, copying computer hard drives onto USB storage devices. Two spiral notebooks were found and also added to their duffle bag. Then Hunter found something out of the ordinary.
A small black spray bottle, which was shorter than his index finger, lay on the floor next to one of the PCs. It had the label Travalo written on it. He removed the cap from the plastic bottle and revealed a small pump sprayer.
“Khan, what does this look like to you?”
“Perfume sprayer, maybe?” replied Khan.
“It’s definitely an atomizer of some kind. It also looks like it unscrews.”
“Let’s not, agreed?” quipped Khan.
“Let’s go. We’ve got a ship to blow and a chopper to ride.”
Hunter and Khan went through the airlocks and sanitized their protective gear. Out of precaution, they instructed the rest of the team to stay outside the laboratory and summon the chopper from CSL Comalapa. That would give Taco and his partner time to set the explosives while Hunter and Khan disrobed. He didn’t want to run the risk of contaminating the members of the team.
After they exited, Taco emerged and gave him a thumbs-up. The team was about to ascend to the main deck when Hunter stopped them and began to run toward the back of the ship.
He yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, you guys, wait on me for a second. I need to grab a souvenir.”
“Whatcha gonna do, man? Cut off a dude’s ear or finger or somethin’?” asked Jackson in his usual sarcastic way.
“No, just something for the team at Belvoir.”
Hunter raced to the aft deck and retrieved his prize, making sure that he wasn’t surprised by a wayward terrorist along the way. He tucked the item into his pack and looked around at the dead bodies that were bleeding onto the deck and through the rails. He shook his head in disgust and then hustled back to the team. They had twenty minutes to get off this vessel of death before it met the bottom of the Gulf.
Chapter 16
Day Thirty-Four
Park Place on Peachtree
Buckhead
Janie: Are you feeling better?
Mac: Yeah, but I’m bored out of my mind.
Janie: Enjoy the time off. You know I’ll feed you everything I learn.
Mac: I need a lab. I really miss Hunter. He’s the one, Janie.
Janie: I know. You talk about him every time. Where is he?
Mac: Don’t know. He said he’d be dark for a few days.
Janie: Just sent you the updates to review. Big file to download, so be patient.
Mac: I’ve got nothing but time. Who’s monitoring my emails?
Janie: D-Bag.
Mac: Figures. I need to reach out to Dr. Latham to tell him what happened.
Janie: It’s all over the news.
Mac: Yeah, I’ve gotta explain.
Janie: Be careful, Mac. D-Bag might cause you trouble.
Mac: What’s he gonna do, fire me? Get to work, Janie, lol!
Janie: TTFN.
“Ta-ta for now,” repeated Mac aloud as she closed her text message app. She immediately opened her email account and fired off a message to Dr. Latham. She hoped the Gmail address didn’t land her message in his junk folder. She had no doubt that Dr. Latham was loyal to her and would share the results of his study as soon as it was complete. It had been eight days since his last email and Mac hoped he was nearing his conclusions.
She switched the screen on her iPad to Safari and navigated to one of her favorite websites, InternationalSOS.com. The company was founded to provide multinational corporations a resource for determining whether their employees might be in peril from infectious diseases or political uprisings in a given region.
Throughout the world, they had created public-private partnerships to keep human resource managers abreast of potential hot spots for their employees abroad. Their information was then communicated to subscribers via text message and email, often before the media picked up on a story.
For example, Mac recalled a recent terrorist bombing in London that killed a couple of dozen and wounded a hundred more. She’d received an email from International SOS, notifying her of the specifics and providing her contact information on the nearest health care facilities and secured locations complete with armed escorts. Mac’s mother had introduced her to the website when Mac began to travel around the world, investigating outbreaks.
