Vega looked around the cargo hold again and shook his head. “Thing is,” he continued, “she falls outside our normal chartering criteria. That’s why MSC wanted a third party to give her a clean bill of health before we take her.”
“So basically,” Dugan said, “the MSC chartering pukes want someone to blame if the fucking thing sinks.”
Vega grinned. “Pretty much, yeah.”
Dugan sighed and looked pensive. “OK, look,” he said, “her inspections are current, and the firefighting equipment was serviced last month. We’re talking a two-day run in good weather and sheltered water, never out of sight of land, with a dozen ports of refuge. She’s not the Queen Mary, but I guess she’ll do.”
Dugan finished as Sheibani, the chief mate, approached. “You like ship, yes? You want us fix something? You tell me, no problem.”
“We’ll need some pad eyes welded to the deck for securing gear. You have chalk we could use to mark the locations?” Dugan pantomimed marking.
“You wait,” Sheibani said, palms outward in the universal sign for “wait” as he shouted up to a crewman on main deck who scurried away.
As they waited, Broussard pointed at the booms. “Those look way too small, Chief.”
Vega turned to Sheibani. “Your booms. How many tons?”
“Three tons,” Sheibani said. “Both booms same. Three tons.”
Vega nodded. “The boats with cradles weigh twenty tons. We’ll need shore cranes at both ends.”
“No problem here in Singapore,” Broussard said. “I’ll get on the horn to Phang-Nga.”
Sheibani looked up at a shout and stretched with easy grace to catch a piece of chalk sailing down from main deck. He turned. “You show. I mark.”
Dugan unfolded a sketch, and they started through the hold.
***
Chief Mate Ali Sheibani, AKA Major Ali Sheibani, Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy, seconded to Qods Brigade for the work of Allah, praised be His Name, in Southeast Asia, watched the infidels’ launch depart as he attempted to ignore the nervous captain beside him.
“This is too risky, Sheibani,” DeVries repeated.
Sheibani sneered. “A bit late to develop an interest,” he said in perfect English.
DeVries bristled. “I’m the captain and owner. I’ll cancel the charter.”
“Try, DeVries, and both your captaincy and your ownership will come to an unpleasant end.” Sheibani glanced at nearby seamen. “You might, with a little help, fall into the hold. A tragic, but not infrequent, occurrence. Go now. Go play your music and smoke your dope.”
He turned his back, and Captain DeVries, master after God of M/V Alicia, slunk away.
Sembawang Marine Terminal
Singapore
22 May
Dugan stood on Alicia’s main deck and glanced at his watch. Balancing two clients simultaneously was always a challenge, but he had a bit of time before Alex’s ship was high and dry and the shipyard was only five minutes away. He looked down into the hold through the open hatch, watching as the second boat landed beside her already-secured twin. Longshoremen swarmed, unshackling the slings and securing the boat. Dugan nodded approval as Broussard supervised the process.
“Sweet boats, Chief,” Dugan said to Chief Petty Officer Vega, who stood beside him. He pointed to a steel container secured aft of the boats. “Firepower in the container?”
“Can’t have a gunboat without guns,” Vega said.
“Isn’t that risky?” Dugan asked. “I mean, with all these people involved.”
Vega shook his head. “We couldn’t keep this quiet, anyway. We figure to let everyone see her leave with our guys riding shotgun. The raggedy-ass pirates in the strait like softer targets. We’ve hidden tracking transponders in each of the boats with a backup on the ship, and Broussard will report in every six hours.”
Dugan nodded and extended his hand. “OK. It looks like everything’s in hand here. I have one of Phoenix Shipping’s tankers going on drydock this morning, and she should be almost dry, so I’ll head back to the yard. When will Alicia sail?”
Vega took Dugan’s hand. “At this rate, they’ll finish by midnight and sail at first light.” He grinned. “Presuming they can drag Captain Flip-Flop out of whatever whorehouse he’s in.”
Dugan laughed. “OK. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning and see she gets off all right. It’s on my way to the yard, anyway.”
“See you then,” Vega said.
Neither noticed a crewman squatting behind a winch, pretending to grease it.
M/T Asian Trader
Sembawang Shipyard, Singapore
22 May
Third Mate Ronald Carlito Medina of the Phoenix Shipping tanker M/T Asian Trader pushed his way down the narrow gangway, ignoring the protests of oncoming workers as he squeezed past. He paused on the wing wall of the drydock, captivated by the controlled chaos unfolding far below. Mist filled the air as workers blasted the hull with high-pressure water, and he watched the American Dugan race into the bottom of the dry dock, the shipyard repair manager in tow. Dugan stopped and pointed up at the hull as his voice cut through the din of machinery, demanding more manpower. The yardman responded with that patient Asian nod indicating not agreement but “Yes, I see your lips moving.” Medina smiled as he turned to move down the stairs to sea level and dry land beyond.
Dodging bicycles, trucks, and forklifts, he made his way to the main gate and a cab for the Sembawang MRT station, and minutes later sat in a train car, backpack between his feet as he leaned back and dozed. He could have been a student or civil servant on his day off—anything but a Jihadist intent on Paradise. But then little was as it seemed.
He was born to a Christian father and Muslim mother, and official records listed him as Roman Catholic but orphaned in his infancy, he was adopted by his Muslim grandparents. A fiercely proud man, his grandfather called him Saful Islam, or Sword of Islam, and set about bringing the boy up properly, intent on erasing the stain on the family name left by his daughter’s marriage to an infidel.
At the age of twelve, and with his grandfather’s blessing, young Medina joined the Abu Sayyaf freedom fighters in the service of Allah, where his non-Moro appearance and official identity were considered gifts from Allah to blind the infidels’ eyes. He was a resource, and a valuable one, and the leaders of Abu Sayyaf reckoned he would be more valuable still if he had a legitimate cover to roam the world. When the time was right, Ronald Carlito Medina entered the Davao Merchant Marine Academy.
***
Medina started awake as the train jerked to a stop in Novena station. He dashed off the train and up the escalator into Novena Mall, past chain stores and fast-food outlets to settle at a terminal in an Internet café. The meeting with his contact the previous day had been troubling, providing a mission but few resources. And the American Dugan’s almost constant presence aboard Asian Trader was another unanticipated complication. But Allah would provide. He moved the mouse and clicked on a link for the website of the Panama Canal Authority.
Chapter Three
Sembawang Marine Terminal
Singapore
22 May
Dugan stood on the dock and watched as Sheibani, the chief mate, manned Alicia’s bridge wing and spoke into a walkie-talkie, and the crew took in mooring lines in response. They got to a certain point and stopped.
“What the fuck’s going on?” asked Chief Petty Officer Vega beside him. “They singled up lines fore and aft and then just stopped, and the friggin’ gangway’s still down.”
In answer to his question, a cab raced onto the dock and skidded to a stop near the gangway. A disheveled Captain Flip-Flop exited the cab, shoved a wad of money through the driver’s-side window, and lurched up the gangway in an unsteady trot. He reached the top to derisive cheers from the crew and disappeared into the deck house, as the crew set about taking in the gangway.
“Christ if that doesn’t look like standard operating procedure,” Vega said as he watc
hed the crew take in the final lines.
“Yeah, I’d have to agree that doesn’t look like it was unexpected,” Dugan said as they watched a tug warp Alicia away from the dock.
“Well,” Vega said, “thank God it’s only two days and that the chief mate seems to have his shit together.”
Dugan nodded silent agreement as he stood beside the navy man and watched Alicia move into the channel. One ship away and one to go, he thought as his mind drifted to Asian Trader sitting on drydock less than a mile away. That was a strange one. Asian Trader had been in the yard over a week and Alex Kairouz hadn’t called once. Alex was a hands-on guy, and though Dugan knew he had Alex’s complete trust, he also knew Alex was incapable of staying aloof from the myriad details of his business. At least he had been that way.
“I guess that’s it then,” said Vega beside him, pulling Dugan back to the present. “Thanks for the help, Mr. Dugan.” Vega extended his hand.
“My pleasure, Chief,” Dugan said, as he shook Vega’s hand. “I guess I’d better get on over to the yard and see what latest crisis is brewing on Asian Trader.
M/V Alicia
Northbound, Straits of Malacca
23 May
Broussard looked out from the bridge wing over the waters of the strait and suppressed a yawn. His attempt at sleep off watch had yielded catnaps between sweaty awakenings, as the decrepit air conditioning of the four-man cabin he shared with his team had labored in vain. The sun was low now, so maybe nightfall would lessen the strain on the antiquated cooling system. Perhaps Hopkins and Santiago, now off watch, would have better luck sleeping than he and Washington had.
He’d just begun his second six-hour watch, but he was already sweating. The body armor was hot, and he was restrained from shedding it only by Chief Vega’s graphic description of what he would do to anyone who did. Broussard’s single concession to comfort was his helmet strapped to his web gear instead of on his head.
“How do you copy?” asked Washington’s voice in Broussard’s ear, as his subordinate checked in from his position on the stern.
“Five by five,” Broussard said.
He looked up as Sheibani approached with his ever-present smile. Nice little guy, he thought, though he talked like an Asian in a crappy TV movie.
“Mr. Broussard,” Sheibani said, “you sleep very good, yes? Cabin OK?”
“Just fine,” Broussard lied, “thanks for your hospitality.”
“Good,” Sheibani said, squinting into the distance. “What that?”
Broussard followed Sheibani’s gaze and said over his shoulder, “I don’t—”
A light burst behind Broussard’s eyes as he dropped, equipment clattering. Sheibani pocketed the sap and knelt to bind the American’s wrists before rising to move away, his smile now genuine.
***
Broussard awoke to a throbbing head, the scuffed blue tile of the officers’ lounge cool on his cheek and filling his vision. He was gagged and bound hand and foot, the night sky through the portholes telling him the sun had set.
“Ah, Broussard,” said a strangely familiar voice, “you decided to rejoin us.”
He ignored his pounding head and twisted to look up, then tried to twist away as Sheibani pried his eye wide with thumb and forefinger and a bright light obliterated his vision. He squirmed as Sheibani repeated the process on the other eye.
“Good,” Sheibani said. “Pupils equal and reactive. I feared a concussion. I don’t normally use nonlethal force. It was a learning experience.”
Broussard’s curse emerged as an irritated grunt through the tape covering his mouth.
“Patience, Broussard,” Sheibani said. “I want to hear what you have to say, but first you must listen.”
He barked orders and two crewmen manhandled Broussard into a chair. Hands bound behind, he balanced on the edge of the seat, feet pressed to the deck. Hopkins and Santiago perched nearby, similarly restrained. All were barefoot and stripped to their utility trousers. Broussard’s hope surged at Washington’s absence then died as quickly.
“While you napped,” Sheibani said, “Washington and I chatted.”
Sheibani nodded and his subordinates stepped into the passageway and dragged in a plastic-wrapped bundle, leaving it in front of the three Americans and throwing back the plastic. Washington was face up, blood pooled in empty eye sockets. The severed fingers of one hand, his genitals, and his eyeballs were piled in the center of his massive chest. Ebony skin was flayed in wide strips and blood wept from raw flesh to pool on the plastic. Broussard screwed his eyes shut and fought rising vomit. Hopkins did the same, but Santiago made strangling noises, vomit pulsing from his nose. Sheibani ripped the tape from Santiago’s mouth as the sailor retched on the corpse and then coughed wetly before managing a ragged breath.
***
Washington had told Sheibani nothing. He had, in fact, spit in Sheibani’s face, sending the Iranian into a rage that ended in Washington’s death. Sheibani regretted his loss of control, but, after some thought, decided Washington would serve him in death as he’d refused to in life. As horrible as the mutilations to the big man’s body appeared, they occurred when he was beyond feeling pain.
“I suspected,” Sheibani lied, “there were tracking devices. Washington provided the locations, maintaining to the end there were three. But I’m a suspicious fellow. I could question each of you, but that would be tedious. Instead, Broussard, I will question you. You don’t know which locations Washington divulged, so you must reveal them all. If you refuse, I kill your colleagues and resort to more painful techniques. Understood?”
Broussard glared.
Sheibani sighed. “I see you need convincing.”
He drew a pistol and shot Santiago in the head. The man fell, twitching across Washington’s corpse, blood pumping out in a widening circle as Broussard’s screams were muffled by the tape and his attempts to stand thwarted by Sheibani’s underlings. Hopkins stared down in shock, attempting to move his feet out of the spreading blood pool.
Sheibani ripped the tape off Broussard’s mouth. “Now! The locations!”
Broussard tried to spit in Sheibani’s face, but his lips were still glued shut from the adhesive, and spit leaked down his chin. Sheibani laughed and put his gun to Hopkins’s head.
“Wait,” Broussard croaked, forcing his lips apart.
Sheibani prodded Hopkins’s head. “The locations!”
“In each boat,” Broussard gasped, “behind the fire extinguishers, and one in the forward storeroom.”
Sheibani smiled as one of his underlings rushed out. Only then did Broussard understand.
“You didn’t know.”
“I knew the number, not the locations,” Sheibani said, grinning. “You saved us a great deal of time and may be of further use. Cooperate and you two live. Fail to do so and Washington’s death will seem merciful. Consider that as you wait.”
***
Sheibani left the room and moved up the stairway to the bridge. He passed the captain’s cabin and saw DeVries through the open door, sprawled on his bunk with his headphones, in a funk of blue smoke. He sneered and climbed the last flight to the bridge.
On the bridge wing, he watched in the moonlight as a Zodiac inflatable matched Alicia’s speed and moved alongside. Lines were passed as a rope ladder dropped from main deck, and the transponders were transferred. He confirmed everything was going to plan and rushed back down to the lounge, where two men stood guard.
“Listen well, Broussard,” Sheibani said, producing a small recording device.
Sheibani pushed a button and Broussard’s voice came from the speaker, giving an earlier position report.
“You two,” Sheibani said, “will be placed in a small boat and report in as expected. If you try anything, Hopkins will be killed and you will be taken to a secure location, where it will take you a long, long time to die. Understand?”
Broussard nodded and Sheibani continued.
“Your previous repor
ts were identical. Keep them so. My men have memorized these recordings, both words and tone. If you deviate in the slightest, they terminate the call and shoot Hopkins.” Sheibani smiled. “And you will envy him.”
The crewmen’s smirks confirmed their command of English.
Using the Americans to buy a bit more time was a calculated risk. If his men had to disconnect, and could do so cleanly, Singapore would suspect technical problems, given that the Zodiac was on Alicia’s agreed course. But even if Broussard managed a warning, Sheibani’s men would have plenty of time to kill the Americans and dump their bodies and the transponders before disappearing into the mangrove swamps along the Malaysian coast. And Alicia would be well concealed before the Americans even mounted a search.
First the stick, thought Sheibani, now the carrot.
“We don’t need you, Broussard, but if your help buys us a bit of time, I will spare you both. You will be hostages, eligible for exchange in time. Will you cooperate?”
Broussard nodded.
“Excellent,” Sheibani said as he ordered his men to get the Americans to the boat.
Minutes later, Sheibani stood on the bridge as the Zodiac maintained Alicia’s original course and speed, and Alicia inched to port. When the separation was sufficient, he set a new course and increased speed for his hideout, eight hours away.
***
Broussard lay on the plywood floorboard as the boat bounced along. They were still bound, their arms in front and their ankles bound more loosely, changed to allow them to inch down the rope ladder into the boat. He faced Hopkins, dumped there after the midnight call, when his resolve to warn Singapore had melted at the sight of the gun to Hopkins’s head. After that, the terrorists had relaxed, dumping the hostages on the floorboards, not bothering to retape Broussard’s mouth. He whispered to Hopkins in the moonlight.
“Donny, can you hear me?”
Hopkins nodded.
“Donny, you know they’re gonna kill us, right?”
Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1) Page 2
