by Noah Waters
Reports were proving him right. The capture of commercial goods and the kidnapping of crew members showed no signs of slowing down. Somali pirates had learned early on that large corporations would pay millions of dollars rather than lose commercial goods or crew. It was an old-fashioned game that had even been played by the American mafia from time to time. It wouldn’t surprise the captain to learn that independent entrepreneurs might offer protection against piracy for large amounts of money. Yes, the security of the seas around the world provided daily challenges. Today, however, his report gathering did not paint a threat to America’s waterways. His gut instincts told him it would only be a matter of time. He would be searching for anything that looked or felt different and that was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Chapter XIV
ABDI LAY IN HIS BUNK FEELING THE SWAYING OF THE CALLA LILY AS SHE cruised with an uneven tilt. His nausea had subsided. He couldn’t remember eating anything that would cause the nausea to last so long. Reaching to the top of his brow to place his palm on his forehead, he could feel the warmth of his skin. It seemed at times that he was hotter than the others.
Occasionally while cooking, the shivers would come upon him like a thief in the night. It was during this time that he missed Somalia most. To the rest of the world, Somalia presented nothing but problems. To Abdi, it was home. Somalis had never had the golden opportunities of Americans. He was bitter about the lack of opportunities for his people. Why had Allah provided so much for one country and not for others? His mother had cradled him from infancy in the teachings of Allah. Since his birth, the ways of the Quran were inscribed upon his heart.
While his father, a fisherman, had always felt that karma would come unto others, Abdi could wait no longer. Abdi saw faith’s mission as an action to be carried out in any manner which clearly was different than his family’s beliefs. He continued to lie on the bunk while the sounds of the Filipino crew members hummed above as they mopped the deck spotless. It was his hope the singing would ease his trembling.
The transit to America was commonplace to the Filipino crew. Supply ships often traveled throughout the Gulf of Aden—as regular as fishing vessels. The crew aboard the Calla Lily had years of experience. They seemed to enjoy the long trip and Abdi had never seen one of them sick.
While trying hard to soothe his stomach, Abdi’s thoughts drifted back to the day he met Marcel in a small fishing village. At that time Marcel came across a trail through the brush while walking that led to Abdi’s home while walking to the port. Marcel told Abdi it was his destiny to meet a brother who would carry out a mission vital for the fight of faith—the meeting had been well planned. Abdi had prayed faithfully to become an avenger of his people.
Marcel had trained long and hard in Pakistan. He had learned many tactics that could be used to fight the enemy. Traditional warfare material would no longer do. Improvised explosive devices that could fit into a matchbox or children who could carry weapons without fear of being searched were the order of the day. Years had been spent learning the Western way of life. Blue jeans, casual shorts, Western watches, and wallets packed with cash. Marcel’s biggest disgust came from trading in his holy sandals for the American tennis shoe. Disgust filled his mouth with a bitter taste. His world of books, prayers, and a small carpet that could be laid out for devotion time were gone—until his mission could be completed.
Upon Marcel’s departure from Pakistan, he had received a small book titled, The American Culture, and a note tucked inside. The note contained no signature and was written in Arabic. “Seek and ye shall find a brethren in Somalia that will complete your purpose. To die for Allah is the ultimate sacrifice. You shall come upon a trading center—find the first fisherman that will be bearing a purple robe. He will provide you with a small container. Waste no time and ask no questions. Speak to no one. Instruct the brethren that he is to travel to America in order to set foot on her shores saying nothing; for the breath of his life shall be the death of theirs.” Marcel understood. He was dedicated and faithful in all respects.
When he was not fishing, Abdi’s afternoons were filled with reading the Quran and so it was the day Marcel came into his village. To Marcel’s surprise, Abdi was the first fisherman he met.
“Are you known as the brethren?”
Abdi sat on the ground and his eyes glanced upward into Marcel’s eyes.
“I am Abdi, a believer of the Quran destined to carry out whatever Allah requires and, yes, I am known as the brethren.” As he gathered about his purple robe and got up, Marcel smiled.
“We have much to discuss. Allah has willed our meeting and so, our destination. There is a ship in the Gulf of Aden that will transport us to America. We will travel together with two completely separate missions.”
Marcel reached down and dusted off a carrying bag; he slowly opened a flap. The open bag revealed a small box tightly wrapped in packing tape. The tiny box remained cool to touch. Abdi could see the package from where he stood. He could see the nervousness in Marcel as he touched the small box.
“Allah has blessed our mission. This small box is a gift from Allah to you. Praise be to Allah”
“The ship shall carry us across the sea. We shall return unto the Americans that which they have provided us—hunger, poverty, and death on a massive scale.”
Abdi bowed his head and with humbled worshipping tones replied, “Be it Allah’s will.”
Abdi’s flashback was interrupted by the crew chief shaking his bunk bed.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asked.
“Yes,” Abdi responded softly.
“Good, there is work to be done. Crew members don’t cross for free.”
Abdi had come aboard the Cally Lily as a cook and Marcel, a deck hand. “How far are we from American shores?” Abdi asked the crew chief.
“About 48 hours.”
The crew chief proceeded through the small oval opening of the lower deck ascending toward the bridge. As Abdi threw his legs over the side of the bunk, he was surprised to find that his light-headedness remained. A small drop of sweat dripped from his forehead down onto his kneecap. The fire in his body still burned. He felt it would help his nausea if he had a different assignment. Being a cook in the kitchen, however, intensified the problem.
“Hurry up and get into the kitchen,” Abdi could hear Marcel intensely giving orders. “We don’t want them to suspect anything.”
Abdi reached for a towel that lay upon his bunk, took a deep breath, and blotted dry the perspiration from his face and various parts of his chest. Seven to 14 days, the numbers flashed in front of his eyes. These were the numbers written inside the box. Abdi knew 8 days had already passed. He had no understanding of what the numbers meant or how they would affect him directly. The instructions had been simple. Once the box was opened, the vial contents were to be spread onto a blanket that he used for cover. Beyond this, Abdi’s mission was simply to arrive in America. He had noticed Marcel keeping a close eye on him after he opened the box. Marcel was no talker and he spoke very little of his training in Pakistan. His contacts or who he had received orders from remained a mystery to Abdi. Abdi had no idea what the mission was in America. Marcel explained only once that their mission would be greater in scope than they could ever imagine.
The corridors of the vessel were narrow. Abdi held on tightly as he walked to the kitchen’s small entryway.
“Good to see you back,” the head chef responded. Abdi reached in the refrigerator to grab a couple of eggs. He noticed a small container and immediately had another flashback. Cutting the packing tape open on the box revealed Russian writing. Abdi had seen this writing before when Russians came into port. Seven to 14 days, what did it mean? Abdi shook his head to erase the tiny container vial and the numbers from the forefront of his mind. The refrigerator door closed with a thud—darkness was all that remained.
Chapter XV
THE HILLS OF SAN FRANCISCO PROVIDED A SPECTACULAR VIEW. AS NOAH, Casey,
and Rachel stepped from the taxi, Noah’s eyes grew larger by the minute. The sunset was absolutely gorgeous. Even though they were at the top of a hill, Noah could see the beautiful bay below with streaks of orange and gold in it. The entire city glistened. The image included an emerging moon so full that it looked like an oil painting. The fire tower could be seen in double imagery while music could be heard for half a mile. No doubt San Francisco was a city of lights and beauty. A slight bay breeze blew across Noah’s face as if a gentle lover had touched her skin.
“Where to first?” Rachel’s excitement couldn’t be contained. To be at home was always exciting to Rachel, but to be at home and with Casey and Noah present was the greatest gift of all. Although she said nothing, Noah was quietly attempting to adapt to Rachel’s outfit—sandals with straps thigh high, a black leather mini skirt with a red halter top, large medallion earrings, and a necklace that could have belonged to Nefertiti. Noah reached across to pull her black-and-blue checked jacket a little tighter. Her L.L. Bean shoes and shirt left little doubt that San Francisco had not changed her choice in clothing. Casey wore his usual Buckeye shirt, blue jeans, and boots.
“I’m not sure what kind of place all three of us are dressed to go to,” Noah finally spoke up.
“Then let’s walk,” Rachel responded.
“Can you really walk in those?” Casey questioned.
Without an answer, Rachel started trotting up the hill without a single wobble. There were restaurants from every country in the world—Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai, Italian, and Spanish mingled with varieties of private clubs—gays, lesbians, bi-sexual, swingers—a different stroke for every different kind of folk.
Noah whispered, “I’m not in Mississippi anymore.”
Casey laughed. “I’m ready for a drink,” he said. Without a second thought, he swung open the next door they came across to reveal a plush red carpet. Proceeding through the door, Rachel bounced like a giddy schoolgirl. Noah proceeded cautiously. Casey handed a one hundred-dollar bill to a man standing in an all-leather suit just beyond the entry way.
Noah really remained cautious at this point. “Where are we?”
“Find the bar and have a seat,” Casey said.
A round stage with purple fur-trimmed seats adorned an extended walnut bar; a twinkling star lighted the ceiling overhead. Noah was slowly taking all of it in. Rachel had already pounced on a bar stool and waited for no one to order.
“Double martini, please, with olives.”
“What the hell,” Noah said, “make that two.”
A few people scattered about in dark corners.
“Not many folks here,” Noah observed loudly.
“It’s early yet,” Rachel stated as she received a large martini glass from the bartender’s hand.
“Early? It’s almost ten o’clock.”
Casey landed on a bar stool at the other end of the bar directly in front of the stage. Within minutes, the lights dimmed. A large-breasted, lightweight, lip-pouting, high-eyebrowed 5′ 9″ redhead in silver heels and silver thong began to dance. Noah had never seen an individual who looked like she had every kind of plastic surgery known to man before now. Within seconds, a sultry voice piped over the speakerphone, “Welcome to the Hustler Club. This is Lady Lighthouse.”
Noah had taken a sip of her martini that she suddenly spewed across the bar. “You brought me to Larry Flint’s place?”
Casey leaned forward on the bar. “It’s San Francisco, get used to it.”
“I’ll take another a double martini please.” The bartender smiled as he quickly exchanged the glasses.
The three settled in for hours of talk—remembering boot camp and the short time frame in between. Though the music blared and the dancers came and went, it was as if nothing else mattered. Catching up on Rachel’s love life, Casey’s kids, and Noah’s sheriff’s duties brought together a homey feeling that provided them great comfort.
As a patron walked out the door, the San Francisco moon rose even higher. Her light shined upon the city with grace and provided the imagery of a fairy tale. Music, laughter, and good times were shared—happiness—if only short-lived.
Chapter XVI
INSIDE THE SEA MARSHALS’ COMMAND CENTER, THE DINGING OF THE BELL from the fax machine was continuous. The ICC was onto something. Gramps had decided to make a quick run-in during his evening walk. Reaching down to pick up the first fax page, he saw that the Calla Lily was written in large letters. As he waited for the fax to transmit the rest of the report, the radio buzzed about inclement weather headed inbound. It seemed to Gramps that most of the facts regarding ICC’s concern over the Calla Lily were just as short as the fax itself. Certainly, there must be more information to come. A sudden heightened alert with the storm’s approach made for a bad combination. With the boarding and bad weather, he certainly wanted confirmation of a viable threat.
“Trouble?” a confident voice questioned. As Gramps pulled his thick glasses from the top of his head down to the top of his nose, he turned to see Commander Dewey standing in the shadows.
“Up late, sir?”
“I just couldn’t sleep. Sounds like bad weather inbound.”
“Yes, sir. Washington has news? Washington always has news—new or old. Looks like we have a vessel heading here from the Gulf of Aden.”
“Problems with it?”
“Don’t know. Information’s coming in bits and pieces. Nothing confirmed. What bothers me is that it looks like its arrival time will be close to the same time Mother Nature decides to get ugly. Looks like nothing in particular stands out with the crew at this point other than she has a lady for a first mate. From a quick glance, it appears to be a traditional Filipino crew. However it seems that intelligence is reporting she may have made a couple of side stops.”
“Do we know where and for what?” Dewey asked.
“Do we ever?” Gramps replied. “I’d say she’ll be arriving inbound about 48 hours or less,” Gramps said with certainty.
“That will give me time to pick a prep team. It sounds like I need to assign a high-risk team from some of our more gifted sea marshals. They would have to be made up of our strongest ladder climbers, best shooters, and be able to heavily depend upon their law enforcement background. I’ll sleep on it,” Dewey said as he proceeded through the exit door. After all, the best that Dewey could hope for was a couple of hours of solid sleep with this new news.
The damp night air caused Commander Dewey to pull his light weather jacket closer. A sudden chill ran up and down his spine. Chills to Commander Dewey almost always came from out of nowhere—a sign of things to come.
Chapter XVII
THE SMOKE RINGS CIRCLED SLOWLY AND THICKLY THROUGH THE CRISP NIGHT air. The stars twinkled as if the heavens were attempting to say that all was peaceful around the world at least for the moment. Tilting his head back with his chin pointed outward, Commander Baker attempted to ignore the constant beeping of his BlackBerry on his hip. For just a few short moments he wanted to capture the stillness of the night itself. Particular items—peace and quiet—were usually total strangers to Washington, D.C. and Baker did not want to miss this rare opportunity.
The commander’s vast experience in the intelligence community covered a plethora of national security services. The September 11 attacks, however, had opened up Pandora’s Box with regard to all the unknown maritime possibilities and sea threats that he now had to deal with on a daily basis. He considered it his job to be in the know, especially if an event was taking place on the high seas. After all, it was his watch. His job, as he saw it, was to keep all the ports informed of any intelligence that hinted at a pending attack.
Issues—companies with illegal licenses, mariners with false credentials, incomplete arrival announcements, incorrect or incomplete shipping invoices, third-party distribution warehouse centers, unlimited storage facilities, lack of container security, and the mere fact that each container could carry thousands of items from different supply chains
didn’t seem so daunting a task.
The variations of attack methods that could be used by an enemy, however, were enormous, and the resources he had at hand were limited—compared to other agencies. In the commander’s way of thinking, the recent attacks proved to the industrial world that software was needed especially when it came to tracing, tracking, and identifying information. While the United States had a large variety of capabilities, it was considered to be far behind other countries. America was known to throw millions of dollars at a given problem, yet its ability to accomplish the undertaking in a timely fashion was questionable.
Beep, beep, beep.
“One more drag before I decide to answer you,” the commander whispered in the chilly night air. Tilting his emerald green eyes downward at his Bulova watch, he managed to steal an entire 5 minutes to himself.
“Baker,” the BlackBerry phone finally stopped beeping.
“Sir, can you report to watch floor?” the watchstander asked.
“I’m on my way.”
The Marlboro cigarette slowly fell to the ground as the commander watched the final smoke ring dissipate—his right foot twisting left and right to ensure the cigarette was completely out. He thought, If all problems could only be put out so easily.
As he approached the National Maritime Intelligence Center’s (NMIC) doors, two perfectly statuesque security officers promptly clicked their heels and saluted. Baker returned the salute. Through the turnstiles and down the hall, he walked at a steady pace. The NMIC office reminded him of a hospital. The watch floor ceiling looked sterile. Multiple floors divided into multiple rooms. Skiffs were located throughout the building. Top-security rooms were used to disseminate classified data regularly. The halls were filled with petty officers, master chiefs, lieutenants, and a good sprinkling of commanders and, captains. To head it all up was an admiral with more than 26 years of experience. Baker was well known in the intelligence world.
