by Sean McFate
“They found it on the battlefield, next to a dead man,” Winters said.
I just stared at the black screen, too worn out to say anything. Why would someone risk their life to film something like that? What was the point?
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Winters said. “But he works, Thomas. He works.”
Chapter 54
The knocking on the door grew louder.
“Admiral Balloch, wake up! Wake up, sir.”
The admiral rolled over in his bunk and checked the time: 0012, just after midnight. He had slept less than three hours in the past twenty-four. “What is it?”
“The ship. We found her.”
Finally, he thought.
“Excellent. Get a helo in the air and plot a course to intercept. Make the closest point of approach four thousand yards. That should give us plenty of standoff room in case they have RPGs.”
“Already done, sir.”
“What’s our ETA?”
“Forty minutes in current conditions.”
The storm hadn’t abated. The admiral could feel it raging beneath him. “Meet me in the CIC,” he said.
“Yes sir.”
Balloch cleaned up, slipped on his duty uniform, and ate a stale samosa. It was never a good idea to go into action on an empty stomach. He walked to the Combat Information Center, swaying as the ship rolled in the high sea.
“Admiral on deck!” a sailor shouted, and the CIC crew snapped to attention.
“At ease. Status update. And someone, please fetch me a tea.”
The CIC buzzed with people under low light. Large color screens showed the positions of the fleet and the mystery freighter.
“Sir, we have confirmed it’s the Eleutheria,” the Executive Officer, or XO, said, pointing to a blip on the chart on a large screen. “She’s six miles off our starboard bow, making seven knots, heading north-northwest in sea state five. We have a helo on station, and the Eleutheria is refusing our hails.”
The admiral stared at the monitor with their helicopter’s live video feed. The helo was circling the ship in the gusting rain, the old ship struggling against the heavy weather. Except for the gale, all looked normal with the ship.
“Any signs of distress?”
“None sir,” the XO said.
“Is their transmitter broken?”
“Unknown, sir.”
“Are the assault teams on station?”
“We have two RHIB boats with VBSS teams ready to launch. Just give the word.”
The admiral sipped his tea. “Hail them again,” he said.
The helicopter buzzed the Eleutheria, spotlight locked on her decks as she heaved in the squall. The bridge crew was fearful but didn’t dare speak. The last man who challenged the captain was in sick bay with three stiches in his lip and half his wages withheld. All sailors knew the only law that mattered at sea was the captain’s. Mutiny was possible, but Captain Goncalves kept the one key to the ship’s armory around his neck, and punishment for attempting mutiny was death.
“Eleutheria,” the radio blared over channel 13, the bridge-to-bridge frequency. “This is frigate hull number F270, four thousand feet off your port beam. Switch to channel fifteen, over.”
“Ignore them!” Goncalves growled, holding on to a handrail as the ship rolled in ten-foot waves. For the past thirty minutes, the multinational naval task force ship had been trying to contact them. The radio operator looked down at the floor, thinking what every man onboard the Eleutheria was thinking: what has the captain done?
“Goddammit, eyes front!” the captain ordered. “Ignore them.”
The captain is insane. He will get us all killed.
Yet no man had the courage to instigate a mutiny. Finally, the first mate spoke up. “Captain . . . perhaps it will go easier if we answer them.”
Goncalves remained a statue. Wind beat the rain into the bridge’s windows.
“They committed an entire task force to find us,” the first mate said.
“What are you suggesting?”
The mate shuffled his feet nervously. “I’ve been smuggling for twenty-five years and I’ve never seen a navy task force being reassigned to chase down a lone freighter. It makes no sense.” He paused to choose his words carefully. “What did we pick up in Pakistan?”
Goncalves turned to face him. The mate instantly knew he had gone too far.
“That is none of your concern,” the captain said.
“Eleutheria . . .” the radio message again.
“No one touch that radio!” the captain bellowed, facing the bridge crew. “No one questions me! I am the captain of this vessel. Any man who takes issue with my command is free to leave my ship and swim to shore. Is that understood?”
Silence, save the whipping rain.
“Good. Then we have an understanding,” the captain said.
The mate saw the chain around the captain’s neck. He could take control of this vessel with that key.
“Captain,” the mate said. “We understand. Isn’t that right, men?”
They grunted, without enthusiasm.
Good, the mate thought. They will probably rally to my side.
“Then do as I say or there will be a flogging, so help me God.”
The mate had been measuring Goncalves for years. He knew he could take him down. The captain was half his build and twice his age.
“I’ll rig a noose from the yardarm and do it the old way,” Goncalves thundered.
If he could tackle him from behind, surprising him, it would be over in less than a minute. When the bridge crew saw him win decisively, they would rally. He could snatch the key to the armory and take control of the ship, with just a loyal few.
It will be more than a few, the mate thought.
“How far are we?” the admiral asked.
“Ten minutes,” the XO said. “The VBSS teams are asking for permission to deploy, the RHIBs ready to launch.”
The admiral sipped his tea again, rolling with the storm surge. The freighter was on several monitors now. It had not changed course or responded to their radio communications.
“Get closer,” the admiral said.
“Sir, this is highly irregular,” the XO said. “Our orders are clear.”
“My order is clear, Commander,” the admiral said. “We get closer, and we wait.”
Chapter 55
Amr Diab, the Justin Timberlake of the Arab world, was blaring over the radio.
I want you to feel my happiness, be at my place and feel the happiness to live with your loved one, not someone else.
This night, baby, is the night of our lives, this night is the night of my life!
The music was giving Abdulaziz a headache. Allah protect me, he thought, turning off the Land Cruiser’s radio. It was bad enough that his teenage daughters liked Justin Timberlake, but now Arab culture was imitating the irritating rat. Pop culture was America’s true weapon.
That, and casual cruelty, the prince thought.
He was speeding along at a hundred kilometers an hour, surrounded by the flat and empty Saudi Arabian desert. There wasn’t another soul in any direction, all the way to the horizon. He rolled down the window and breathed deeply, his white robe and red-checkered head scarf flapping in the wind. He loved the desert because it was unforgiving.
Sitting next to him was Princeling Abdulaziz, or “Zeez” for short. Among all his companions, Zeez was a favorite. They understood one another, despite their many differences.
“Zeez, how are you feeling today?”
The bird said nothing in return. It sat motionless on the custom-built bird bar Abdulaziz had installed between the Land Cruiser’s front leather seats, despite the strong wind through the open window. Abdulaziz smiled at the dignity. Zeez was a saker falcon, a species favored by Saudi royals for generations and known for its speed and power. The falcon could spot prey kilometers away and fly at over a hundred kilometers per hour, nearly doubling that when diving on prey. Watching it
obliterate its quarry brought inner light to Abdulaziz. He had bought the falcon illegally in Dubai for a mere $10,000; the bird would have been worth it to the prince at ten times the price.
“Zeez, you are the light of my eyes. You are magnificent,” Abdulaziz cooed, stroking the bird’s feathered breast. The hawk jerked its head left then right. It could see nothing with its hood on, but it let out a screech of anticipation.
“There, there, Zeez, have patience,” Abdulaziz said.
The back of the Land Rover was stacked high with rectangular bird cages holding pigeons, each named after one of Abdulaziz’s enemies: Ahmad, Abdullah, Nassar, El Amin, Muhammad, Mohammad, Nejem, Tawfeek, Mahmoud Ali, and Khalid.
Khalid, he thought. The man’s very existence was an offense.
Brad Winters had reported Farhan’s death in a firefight in Iraq less than two hours ago. If not for the video, Abdulaziz might not have believed him. Winters wasn’t a trustworthy man; at this level, nobody was. He had recognized the Wahhabi from the video, though, the same man who had killed the majordomo. True, he didn’t see the killing blow, but the prince was happy for that. He had watched a hundred men die, a few by his own hand, but he didn’t want to see his last son murdered. It was like watching everything he had spent his life building collapse.
No, it wasn’t like that. It was deeper. It was true, grinding pain. He would never see his son again, he would have no heir, and the only thing he would have to bury, according to Winters, was a few fingers and teeth.
The Land Cruiser glided to a stop. “Are you ready, my precious?” the prince asked the falcon, as he stepped out and took a big breath of sweet desert air.
Out here, nothing mattered. No e-mails, conference calls, annoying subordinates, moronic superiors, crises, or stress. Out here, nothing could touch him: no heartbreak or betrayal. Winters would fix things. The prince knew that. The nuke was gone, and the evidence would never point back to him, the General Intelligence Directorate, or the Western-leaning side of the royal family he served.
But Winters could never fix what truly mattered, and Abdulaziz was just beginning to feel the pain of that.
The hawk screeched again, wondering at the delay and sensing the feast to come. The eternal struggle: animal versus animal, man versus time. In a country flush with money and opulence, falconry was a bulwark against the tide. Hawking offered communion with the prince’s Bedouin heritage, and the long line of tough desert nomads who had made him.
“Yes, yes, my moon,” he said, as Zeez fidgeted on his glove. The hawk was beautiful in the desert light. Its chest was white, with streaks of brown. The top feathers were brown, with white highlights, a camouflage worthy of the Louvre.
“Let us get your first quarry,” Abdulaziz said, pulling a pigeon from one of the cages. “You shall be named . . . Khalid, the first to perish.”
He threw the pigeon overhand, like a baseball. The bird fluttered and squawked, flying upward. Lovingly, he stroked the saker’s breast then removed its hood, and its head rapidly dipped up and down as it scanned the horizon. It locked onto the ascending pigeon and started flapping, its talons still tied to Abdulaziz’s glove.
“Show Khalid his fate,” he said as he let the hawk go. It shot straight up like a rocket, soaring well above the pigeon. It locked on to its target, then dove with claws outstretched. But Khalid showed moxie and dodged at the last second. The hawk banked hard. The saker had the speed of a jet with the agility of a helicopter. The pigeon was wily, though, and plummeted toward the ground. Zeez followed. Both accelerated to full speed, straight toward the desert floor. The pigeon flattened out, rear tail feathers flared to control its extreme velocity. Zeez extended his talons for the kill. Khalid saw the shadow from above, and jerked left, but Zeez anticipated the ruse this time, and hit the pigeon like a missile. Pigeon down.
“Tear him, Zeez,” Abdulaziz said, letting go of his binoculars. The violence was brutal yet beautiful, but it offered only partial relief. He climbed into the Land Cruiser and sped to the saker, so that he could watch it disembowel its prey. White and gray feathers blew into the desert wind as the hawk’s beak tore into the body. Abdulaziz stood and admired.
Ten more pigeons, all named Khalid, met the same fate. Zeez stopped eating after the fourth bird, choosing instead to kill and eviscerate. That was what made Zeez a special bird, why he was worth $10,000, and why he had earned the Abdulaziz family name. This raptor was intelligent enough to cherish the pleasures of victory.
The phone rang. He answered it. “Yes.”
He listened without expression, occasionally nodding.
“Good,” he said at last.
The plan was in motion. It would not take long. Winters and men like him could plan and scheme. They were useful. They would set the evidence right, if anyone looked. But that wasn’t Abdulaziz’s preferred method. You didn’t give a man like Prince Khalid room to maneuver. They were too dangerous for that. You ended it, then sorted out the details later.
He grabbed the last pigeon, a very special, ugly bird. “Fly, Khalid,” he yelled as he hurled the pigeon as hard as he could.
The raptor was on it before it had a chance to unfurl its wings, diving from above and hurling the helpless pigeon to the ground. The bird was gutted before it hit the sand.
Chapter 56
It had been thirty minutes. Admiral Balloch was pushing the situation to the point of breaking, and he knew it. He couldn’t wait any longer. “Clear the deck!” the admiral ordered.
The Combat Information Center crew stiffened, turning to face the ambitious career officer who had been in charge of this ship for the last three years. The CIC was never deserted, especially during a potential action.
“Clear out,” the admiral yelled, iron in his voice. “Now!”
The crew fumbled over each other getting out the small hatch.
“You stay,” the admiral said to the XO. “And you too, Chief.”
The chief froze by the bulkhead. The XO stood at attention, bracing himself for the worst. Perhaps he had displeased the admiral and was about to be relieved of his post. Or perhaps he had inadvertently compromised the mission. The fact that the chief remained to witness his imminent ass chewing only deepened his humiliation.
The hatch of the Combat Information Center sealed shut, leaving the three of them alone.
“Commander,” the admiral said calmly, and the XO winced, waiting for his punishment. It was always worse when senior officers were calm. “Recall the helo.”
What?! “Sir?”
“I ordered you to recall the helo. And stand down the marines.”
The XO’s face twisted. On one hand, he was relieved not to be sacked. On the other, what the admiral had ordered was treasonous. A court-martial offense.
“Sir,” the XO said. “Our orders are clear. We are to intercept and search this cargo ship. Why would you recall the helo and stand down the marines? How will we search it?”
“We already have.”
“Sir?”
“Commander, you will mark in your log—as will the chief, as will I—that the Eleutheria has been searched and nothing was found.”
“What?”
“The Eleutheria is clean,” Balloch said calmly.
“A-Admiral,” the man stammered, “you’re asking me to falsify a log entry on a priority mission. I can’t do that.” The XO felt light-headed. He realized he was breathing heavily. He had never questioned his commanding officer before. “With respect, sir, why are you ordering this?”
“I have my orders, too,” the admiral said.
Captain Goncalves turned to face the oncoming frigate. The navy ship’s mass was a foreboding black silhouette against the night sky. It should never have come this close in such high seas, and especially not for so long. One rogue wave, and it could smash their hull and kill them all.
Now is the time, the mate thought, preparing to tackle the captain from behind. Now is the time to end this madness. Before the soldiers board and sen
d us all to the brig.
“Captain, they are six hundred yards and closing,” someone said.
The mate glanced around the pilothouse, looking for some sort of club, but saw nothing of use. He would have to use his bare hands.
“Five hundred yards.” The frigate loomed out their port windows. The more experienced crew recognized its profile as an American warship, and their knees buckled.
If the mate pulled off his mutiny, he would have to deal with the Americans once they boarded. No one wanted to deal with Americans.
“Four hundred yards. Captain, should we do something?”
“No. You have your orders.”
The man is insane, the mate thought, as he slid behind the captain. The frigate was on course to come across their bow.
“Three hundred yards,” the crewman said, voice shaky.
The mate clenched his fists. Courage, he thought, as he counted down. Three, Two . . .
“Captain, they are changing course!” the helmsman yelled.
The mate looked up. He saw the American warship veering out of their way.
“The Americans are turning!” another crewman shouted.
The helicopter’s spotlight turned off.
“Holy shit!” the men shouted in a dozen different languages. “Hurraa! Zito! Ohana! Keallam!
Impossible, the mate thought, as Goncalves walked up the bridge windows, watching the frigate disappear into the storm. It seemed to take a very long time.
The mate was disgusted. Why did the warship let them go? How did the captain know? The crew would love the captain now. They would talk about this for years. The man with the iron balls. With one decision, the old man had become untouchable, and the mate’s chance of taking over the ship had become spit in the wind.
“Old friend,” the captain said, turning to his first mate. “You are not the man you thought you were, are you?”
