Reprisal!- The Gauntlet

by Cliff Roberts

  “I understand, but why is he refusing us entrance?’ Tom asked.

  “Because he thinks he knows more about security than his bosses do, or maybe he’s got a sixth sense about what’s a threat to this country,” Ron snarled. “If he keeps it up, the Knesset will be passing paper notes again, real soon.”

  Tom looked at the customs official who was rolling his eyes. When he finally made eye contact, Tom asked, “Why are we being denied entrance?”

  “I am not denying you entrance. I am denying him entrance. He has no ID,” the customs official stated.

  “What? I have ID. I’ve got it right here,” Ron stated. He pulled his Kilauea ID and Israeli driver’s license from his pocket. His face turned bright red. “I guess I should have given them to you with their IDs.”

  “Perhaps that would have been best, or at least you should have listened to me,” the customs official chided Ron as he took his ID and ran a computer check on it along with the other Kilauea IDs. After the security check was finished, the official handed back the passports and IDs, and smiled at the team members.

  “Welcome to Israel. I hope you enjoy your stay,” he stated as the team members filed past, each nodding as they went. When Tom stepped up, the official reached out and touched his arm, leaned in close, and said, “I do hope you enjoy your stay, but when you leave could you please take him with you?” Tom smiled and continued on. Ron acted contrite as he passed the official, who just glared at him.

  As soon as the team was through the customs gauntlet and out of earshot of the customs area, Steve piped up and said, “For a minute there, I thought they were going to shoot us.”

  “Yeah, they didn’t look very amused by your behavior,” Tom added.

  Ron turned his head and looked back towards customs. “Better walk faster. I’m not too sure they aren’t going to chase us down.”

  “Great. We’re in Israel for less than hour, and we’re already on their domestic watch list,” Mike mumbled. Every one fell silent.

  After loading up in the company’s full size, nine passenger, blacked out and armored Chevy Suburban, Ron brought up the incident at customs again. “That may have been a little over the top back there, but you can’t back down or show weakness with customs officials anywhere in the world. They are all petty tyrants on power trips. I say you have to either dazzle them with your connections or baffle them with bullshit.” When no one said anything in reply, Ron added a final comment, “I’m just saying.” The team remained silent, and everyone pretended to sleep the rest of the way to the hotel to avoid talking with the Kilauea wild man.

  An hour later, the team checked into the Dan Tel Aviv Hotel near downtown Tel Aviv. Kilauea Corp had rolled out the red carpet for them. Each team member had his own five-star mini-suite, complete with complimentary bar.

  “Why don’t all of you get some rest, and I’ll be back a little later. We’ll take a quick tour of the Kilauea facility and then go out to dinner,” Ron stated.

  “We’re not here to rest. We have job to do. I understand you have the intelligence on our target,” Tom stated.

  “Yes, I do. Your target, David Ashrawl, is in Nablus at an al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade safe house. He’s not going anywhere soon. We’ll need to get out there and set up surveillance tomorrow morning. Today, you rest. Boss’s orders.”

  “That’s just great! Hurry up and wait again,” Tom snarled. Tom hated waiting.

  “I’ll inform the home office that you’ve arrived safely and check if they have any last minute instructions for you,” Ron said.

  “Do you do laundry, as well?” Steve asked.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a laundry bag in your suite. Just fill it up and set it outside your door,” Ron answered politely, ignoring Steve’s sarcasm.

  “What time do we need to be up?” Tom asked.

  “I’ll call before I come,” Ron replied. “Feel free to wander around the hotel, but don’t leave it, okay? Your safety is my responsibility.”

  “We can handle ourselves,” Tom replied.

  “I’m sure you can, but the boss doesn’t want you wandering around on your own until we can go over the ground rules and you have some understanding of what is safe and what is not.”

  “What a crock,” Steve blurted out. Tom shot him a withering gaze which Steve ignored.

  “The hotel has a pool, sauna, billiard’s room, tennis court, golf course and a couple of fine restaurants. There are pay-per-view movies and international cable in your suites, so I don’t think you’ll have any trouble passing the time,” Ron stated.

  “I know I won’t. I’m going to take a long, hot bath and sleep as long as I can,” Pam replied.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A small oriental man in his mid-fifties walked into the ornately paneled library and crossed the room to where an older heavyset man was seated in a plush wingback chair. The older man was reading the Arabic translation of the Wall Street Journal and looked up as the servant entered. It was just after eleven in the morning local time, and the man was dressed in a deep blue, double breasted Armani suit.

  He was an appearance-conscious man who dyed his hair and his neatly trimmed, full beard in order to hide the thick streaks of gray which had become pervasive with age. He did this not because it pleased any of his eight wives, but because he felt he needed to do so for the television cameras.

  As the second in command of the kingdom, entrusted with protecting Islam’s two holiest sites, he needed to appear strong and healthy at all times. His brother’s grasp on the throne depended on their image as much as their iron-fisted domestic policies. His brother walked a tightrope between two worlds—the world of commerce and high finance and one rooted in the Dark Age doctrines of Islamic Fundamentalism that his countrymen embraced with a deep and reverent fanaticism. In fact, his brother, the king, had changed how people addressed him last year from Your Majesty to Your Highness, Keeper of the Holy Sites of Mecca and Medina, in order to appear more religion-oriented.

  Like his brother the king, Crown Prince Heyman Al-Ghazi Al-Fahd of the House of Saud had to be a man of the world; able to deftly ply the deep and dangerous waters of the Western world’s corporate jungle, complete with all its satanic ways. And he was also called upon to be a man of the true faith, basing his life and business dealings on the Koran’s teachings. At times, he felt almost schizophrenic as the two were not the least bit compatible.

  Despite the weight of his own duties, he was fully aware that his older brother’s responsibilities were far heavier. The heaviest of all were the challenges of placating the clergy while dealing with international business concerns. Being Crown Prince was more than enough for him. He was happy with his life and his duties. He had all the wealth anyone could want and all the accompanying privilege said wealth could provide.

  He was glad his brother’s oldest son, who was next in line for the throne, had finished with his schooling and was now deemed experienced enough to be an able leader. It pleased him for he had no desire to rule over the double-edged sword that was the kingdom. But his family had ruled the kingdom for over a hundred years, and the dynasty would rule another hundred if he and his brother had their way and it pleased Allah.

  “You have a call, sir,” the servant stated as he handed the portable phone to the man.

  “Thank you. You may go,” he said dismissively as he mentally noted which phone he had been handed. It was the secure, Mauna Loa encrypted, royal blue phone from his office at the other end of the house.

  Once the servant had left the room, he spoke into the phone, “Yes?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, may Allah’s blessing be upon you and your household.”

  “And yours. Now why have you called me when I am at prayer?” He lied to intimidate the caller after recognizing his voice the first moment he spoke.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was unaware, but this news is most troubling.”

  “Well, get on with it, man!” He showed a bit of his Oxford education in his cli
pped response to his fellow Brotherhood member and friend, Hassam Al-Kareem Fahad, the Emir of Eritrea. He was the great-grandson of the original leader of the group and its current leader, at least as far as the other members were concerned.

  “Our shipment has been destroyed,” he blurted out.

  “Destroyed? How? Where?” the Crown Prince demanded.

  “The ship was destroyed in Cuba. The Cubans are claiming it was an explosion of a natural gas tanker ship, an LNG tanker that destroyed our ship and shipment. According to our sources, there was no ship of that nature in the harbor at that time. We have intelligence to back this up. We have film which clearly shows the ship was blown up by the Cuban Navy,” the man’s voice trembled as he spoke.

  “It seems that the Cubans,” he continued, “failed to deliver all of the agreed upon components of the shipment. When Faruq refused to pay or accept the shipment with its shortages, the Cubans tried to take the money by force. Faruq in return became heavy-handed and commandeered the ship. A dozen or so Cubans were killed in the fighting, including the ship’s purser. Faruq also kidnapped several of the ship’s crew members to operate the ship and to hold as hostages. He then attempted to leave the harbor with the partial shipment on board.

  “Over the course of the incident, Faruq was required to repel several attempts by the Cubans to retake the ship,” he hesitated for a moment to catch his breath. “We have a recording of the phone call from Faruq explaining the problems. We also have a copy of the Cuban Port Authorities’ security tapes which show the entire battle.

  “The Cubans blockaded the harbor and tried to disable the ship by firing torpedoes at the ship’s rudder. The resulting explosion destroyed the whole city. More than twenty-five thousand are estimated dead though the western analysts are saying the final death toll is likely to be much higher.” Hassam stopped talking and waited patiently for the Crown Prince to either ask a question or to tell him what he wanted him to do next.

  “I told the Russians,” the Crown Prince began, “that we preferred to take delivery through Turkey or Egypt, but they wanted to expand their influence. They insisted on demonstrating their loyalty and confidence in an old ally. They are fools! Contact our emissary in Moscow and have him tell the Russians we expect another shipment within the month—through Egypt this time. We will not pay for this new shipment. Be sure to send our emissary in Russia copies of all of the intelligence, and tell the Russians to collect their fee from the Cubans since it was they who chose to alter the deal. They were only meant to be a transfer agent and should not have attempted to steal from us. Be sure they understand that it will be viewed very unfavorably by me if there are any further delays,” the Crown Prince instructed.

  “What should I tell the Brotherhood?” the Emir asked.

  “Send each of them an encrypted message informing them the shipment has been temporarily delayed. We should have it in time to execute our plan.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” the man replied, signifying who really was in control of the Brotherhood. The Crown Prince hung up the phone and sat contemplating the Brotherhood’s plans.

  Unbeknownst to the Crown Prince, the conversation had been digitized and sent half way around the world to the Kilauea facility in Bryson City, North Carolina. After a few days, it would be translated for analysis and passed on to the new Corporate Security team that dealt with terrorism.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The storm was classified as a class four tropical cyclone. It was named Emad, and it was racing westward across the Eastern Indian Ocean at sixteen knots. All commercial shipping had been advised to seek shelter. If shelter was unavailable, they were to alter their course and steam at a ninety degree angle away from the storm, taking the ship out of the storm’s projected path to the south and safety.

  The Libyan registered freighter, The Crescent Moon, was only one of several dozen ships that had to either seek shelter or change course to avoid the brunt of the storm. The ship’s original course was to take her from the Myanmar Republic across the Bay of Bengal, crossing the path of the storm, down the east coast of India and around the island nation of Sri Lanka, formerly known as Ceylon.

  From there she would sail west across the Indian Ocean to the Red Sea and on to Port Sinai at the southern end of the Suez Canal. There she was to unload her cargo of Chinese weapons for Hamas.

  Despite the cyclone, the captain of The Crescent Moon hadn’t changed his plans or timetable for the voyage. He was still planning on sailing south along the Indian coast, even though the cyclone was predicted to follow the same path, only a few hours behind them.

  Most cyclones, known as hurricanes in the west, turn north into northern India and Bangladesh due to the prevailing winds in this part of the world. This one had slipped through a trough in the jet stream and took a swing to the south, building in intensity as it traveled over the warm tropical waters. At present it was a category four storm with the forecast calling for it to intensify. If the captain had been a superstitious man, he might have believed that the storm was alive and that it had turned its malevolent eye on his ship, deciding to chase it down the coast of India.

  As the storm turned southwest, its winds and rain increased, which in turn, caused an increase in the wave action. This forced the captain to adjust the ship’s course into deeper water further from shore to avoid being driven onto one of the many reefs and limestone shoals that dot the subcontinent’s southeastern shoreline.

  Continuing to grow in intensity, Cyclone Emad closed on Sri Lanka at seventeen knots, leaving The Crescent Moon no choice but to continue sailing south at flank speed. There is no commercial shipping passage between India and Sri Lanka due to the natural limestone formation called Adam’s Bridge. It is a chain of limestone shoals that present a major obstacle to navigation in good weather, let alone in a storm.

  With a major cyclone like Emad, there are few safe ports for a ship seven hundred plus feet in length, the size of The Crescent Moon. The best one is the large port of Mullaitivu on the eastern side of Sri Lanka, but the authorities had closed the harbor since it was in the direct path of the cyclone.

  It was feared that the storm surge would sink many of the vessels already in the harbor causing a major ecological disaster. The Crescent Moon was forced to sail on, hoping to outrun the storm around the large island nation and make it to the city of Colombo and its large, safe harbor on the western edge of the island.

  Twenty-six hours later, as The Crescent Moon passed to the south of Colombo, the weather advisory issued by someone overcome by wishful thinking stated that the storm had turned straight west upon meeting with the island of Sri Lanka; by doing so, it would interact with the mountains of the island nation. This interaction would cause the storm to lose strength and speed, and the storm was predicted to drop to tropical storm status and dissipate over the island. Based on that report, the captain of The Crescent Moon decided to forgo the safety of the harbor at Colombo and sailed on into the Laccadive Sea at Sri Lanka’s western edge. He believed he had outrun the storm and was safe to continue on.

  Ten thousand yards to starboard, unbeknownst to the ship’s captain, was an unwelcome stalker, a submarine, a Kilauea Corp Security Force submarine. It was one of three sister boats now operating in designated trouble spots around the globe. It had been stalking The Crescent Moon for the last four days, waiting for the right opportunity to announce its presence. At two in the morning, local time, as the target ship hurried westward through the Laccadive Sea, the sub’s captain decided it was time to introduce the Rip Tide to its prey.

  It was rough sailing on board The Crescent Moon. Despite the weather forecast, the storm had actually picked up speed while crossing Sri Lanka. Instead of interacting with the mountains there as forecasted, it stayed mostly over the very warm waters of the shallow Gulf of Mannar. This slight course deviation allowed the storm to close the distance between itself and the Libyan freighter while increasing in strength.

  The storm’s new path and
speed had cut several hours off the time needed for the storm to catch the freighter. Tropical Cyclone Emad was now a category five storm churning at eighteen knots across the warm open waters of the Indian Ocean, with its eye just twenty miles north of The Crescent Moon.

  The captain of The Crescent Moon, an old seadog, read the winds and waves and knew his ship was in trouble. He ordered the engine room to give him everything they had, even before the new weather advisory had come across his teletype. The captain sensed the storm was growing in intensity by the feel of the air and altered course further to the south—his only hope of surviving the monster storm. The change in course took him further out of the normal shipping lanes and closer to another deadly danger, one of which he was blissfully unaware.

  The Rip Tide was on its maiden voyage for Kilauea Corporation since its refurbishment a few months prior. Its captain was Rod Hodson, a former U.S. Navy Commander who had commanded a submarine for Uncle Sam until he had retired from the service to begin a private law practice. Two years ago, after several years of practicing law, he realized that although a law practice could be lucrative, it couldn’t compare with the adrenaline rush he got from being the skipper of a submarine. So, when he got the chance to do it again, he took it.

  The Rip Tide is one of three sister ships that an independent subsidiary (posing as a front company for the multi-national computer conglomerate Kilauea Corp) had purchased from Great Britain under the guise of using them for scientific research. Once the subsidiary had taken possession of the three boats, they were quickly refitted and reconfigured in a former Soviet Union shipyard outside of St. Petersburg. The old British diesels were removed, and new, state-of-the-art diesels were installed along with long-life batteries which substantially extended the submarines’ time underwater before recharging. In addition, the hulls were radically reshaped providing non-reflective radar surfaces, which made the boats nearly sonar invisible.