by Michael Howe
Aurora was built tough—ice-reinforced hull, numerous redundant systems, an unusually high level of stability—to enable her to overcome the dangers of nature. But it is next to impossible to design and build a ship strong enough to resist the dangers posed by determined and resourceful men of ill will.
Mamoud al Hussein, the executive who provided on-scene representation for the foreign owner of the Estaleiro Tecmar, stood in the living room of his house. The house, of which he had for short periods of time been quite proud, was a large, modern concrete-and-glass structure set in Rio’s high southern hills. All surrounded by a high wall and equally high-tech security system. The view was magnificent—the Atlantic to the south, the center of the city to the east and the Baia de Guanabara beyond. As he watched the sun continue its journey from Africa, Mamoud listened to the sultan’s prime minister on the phone and thought just how fortunate he was to have the view he did. And how regrettable it was that he could no longer enjoy it emotionally as much as he appreciated it intellectually.
“From what you report, Mamoud, it all appears to be going well. Operating profits are up and the operation is beginning to develop an international reputation for quality and innovation.”
“Thank you, Your Exellency.”
As he spoke, Mamoud smiled slightly. Everything was going very well. The charges were in place, and Omar assured him that the heart of the man on the ship burned with a fury equal to Mamoud’s. Although neither the prime minister nor the sultan realized it, His Highness was doing much to make the world a better place, much more than simply operating a cutting-edge shipyard. He was facilitating a cosmically good deed, a most virtuous act, without even knowing it.
In fact, the sultan might not even consider it a virtuous act at all.
While His Highness ranted endlessly to the masses of his subjects about his devotion to his faith, his true love was cash. Business. When it came to cash, His Highness was just as ruthless as the most vicious terrorist.
“We are so pleased, Mamoud, that we are considering moving you on to a totally new project, one which will be exceptionally challenging. Assuming you are ready to move on.”
“I’m confident that the local management at Tecmar is well able to follow through on the program, Your Excellency.”
“Good. You are familiar with our plan to build a new solar panel factory, are you not?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. The last I heard no decision had been made on where to build it.”
“For various reasons, both economic and political, it has been decided to build it in North Africa. We would like you to take charge of it and ensure that, despite the obvious challenges, it is a success.”
“I’m honored, Your Excellency. It sounds like a very interesting project. When should I plan to leave here?”
“Plan on another month in Brasil, then a couple weeks of vacation if you wish, then come to the capital to assemble your team.”
“I look forward to it, Your Exellency.”
Mamoud the engineer couldn’t help but be pleased with the news. Mamoud the terrorist was also perfectly satisfied with it. There was nothing further for him to do in Rio.
Mamoud al Hussein was very much a man of science. He had a Ph.D. in engineering. He’d taught at both MIT and Caltech, owned a dozen major patents and gloried in the scientific method.
Mamoud al Hussein was also very much a man of faith. He had concluded, at an early age, that there existed concepts—good and evil, dignity, justice were examples he might use—that are utterly meaningless to science. The applications made by humans of these concepts were totally explicable to him, but the existence of the concepts, by themselves, was not. Thus, he concluded there was some sort of entity from which these concepts originated, and he was willing to call that corpus God.
For Mamoud al Hussein, there was no conflict between faith and science. Science constituted the revelation of God’s wonders. The scientific method was one route to God. The great Arab scientists and philosophers of the First Millennium had no problem with the juxtaposition, so why should he? And whenever he thought of the millions of Christians and Moslems who had devoted, and still did devote, so much time and hate to fighting science, he felt ill.
Mamoud believed deeply that science and faith must coexist, yet everywhere he looked he saw faith under attack. More now than ever before, in his view. By the ignorant, foolish masses of the world, who were increasingly beguiled by their growing material prosperity. By the cynical, hateful institutions of politics and the media. For them, faith was a joke, something to be hugged when necessary and laughed at contemptuously when it threatened to cramp their style.
This abuse of faith—and the abuse of reason that was part of the process—infuriated Mamoud well beyond any state that might be called reasonable. It created within him a white-hot rage that burned in his guts day and night, even though no sign of it ever slipped through his façade of calm, measured reason. So powerful was the flame that it instantly vaporized the deep, emotional pleasure he had once felt from the company of a woman or from a view such as the one he was now observing or even from the thrill of an engineering triumph. He remained fully capable of appreciating but utterly unable to enjoy.
For years Mamoud had kept his silence, but the current situation was now intolerable. It was a situation that a man of his intellect, his abilities, his ego simply could not allow to continue. He had to speak out, to act. To make an unforgettable statement, a grim one if necessary, that would be seen by all. If, in time, this manifestation of faith—or another—led to his destruction, so be it.
2
South Florida
“God damn it!” growled Chief Boatswain’s Mate (DV) Jerry Andrews as he squatted, squirming, in the rank, black mud, imprisoned on all sides by the head-high salt grass.
Mike Chambers, CO of the Trident Force, agreed silently as he squatted beside Andrews in the awful mud. The black gunk. The blowtorch sun. The sharp, tough grasses that made the dry squeaking sound of centuries-old dead bones as they rubbed against each other. The vicious horseflies that jabbed, sliced or bit every exposed part of their bodies—not to mention the yellowish-brown clouds of chiggers that hissed around their heads—all of which continued to attack despite the fact that Chambers and his people were totally soaked in DEET and undoubtedly developing some totally new type of cancer. It was sheer torture. And it was intended to be sheer torture.
Twenty years ago he might have considered the drill something close to sport. A test of physical skill and determination. A chance to prove himself to himself, if to nobody else. Not anymore. Now it was, at best, a vile necessity—an exercise to maintain certain skills that were but only a part of his current mission.
Captain Michael Chambers, USN, commanded a top-secret, super-low-profile antiterrorism intelligence and intervention/strike group that reported directly to the secretary of defense. The Force had been created to deal with nautical incidents and other threats to U.S. ports, shipping and other maritime interests, especially those involving sticky questions concerning sovereignty and intervention authority.
Mike himself had joined the SEALs upon graduation from the Naval Academy. After several years of special operations, he decided that maybe the navy really was about boats and ships. He transferred back to the fleet and, over the years, rose to command an LPH, one of the helicopter amphibious assault ships that had developed into the backbone of the navy’s force projection mission. When SECDEF himself first offered the Trident job to Mike, he had demurred, but then agreed when assured that once he finished setting up the Force and running it for a year or two, he would get his flag.
The “firing range” on which Chambers and his team were suffering was just one of a number established to help the nation’s many special operations units keep their skills honed. There was a jungle firing range and a desert firing range, as well as arctic, alpine, urban, coastal and deep ocean firing ranges. And they weren’t just a place where you stood with ear protectors hun
g over your head and fired at a target or two. They were nightmare stages on which you waged near-total, personal war. All simulated, of course.
“Watch it, Chief!” growled Chambers as he waved his arms, hoping the other side would note the moving grass. Jerry was getting a little old for this too, he thought. Jerry and Lynn were grandparents, for that matter, although they’d gotten an early start.
Their souls weren’t over the hill, thought Chambers, a little resentfully, but their bodies weren’t as well tuned as they once were.
Each firing range had at least one objective, which was defended by one force and attacked by another. Neither side knew the true identity or precise size of the other. Thus, Mike and his Trident Force might be competing with one of the CIA special groups. Or maybe a normal SEAL detachment. Or Army Rangers or a contingent of the Delta Force. Or the president’s security force. Or even some obscure group of DEA agents. Or any of the special mercenary forces now employed by the government. Or anybody else the secretary of defense and his minions thought might contribute something to the felony. Not only did Mike now not know, but he was supposed to never know the other side’s identity. And the same for the other side. The only thing of which either could be reasonably sure was that the other’s armament was as basic as their own. The drill was supposed to be a test of wits and stamina, not who had the biggest weapons budget.
The marsh firing range on which Mike and his fellows were pinned down was located in the middle of the Big Cypress National Preserve in the southern tip of Florida, not far from the Miccosukee Reservation. The objective was a ratty little long-abandoned village of crumbling mud and daub huts.
The morning had started out cool as Mike and his Force team commenced their eight-mile slog toward the objective. So cool was it that it took almost fifteen minutes for the big blobs of sweat to begin appearing on their jungle greens. They forced their way through three or four miles of sharp-edged, head-high grass. Then the sun and the deep, glue-like muck—“God’s own crap” as Jerry called it—began to wear them down. They maintained their alertness, however, and were rewarded. Around mid-morning they spotted a contingent of the other force emplaced on a small, brush-covered hummock that stood between them and the objective. As far as Mike could tell, the defenders hadn’t spotted them.
Chambers’s initial thought was to detour around the hummock and move on directly to the objective, but it seemed clear that was not practical. They would be spotted unless they detoured so far that they would not make it to the objective before the end of the exercise.
Among the many iron-hard rules of warfare, two stand out: Never attack an entrenched, very possibly superior enemy head-on, and never divide your forces. If you violate one of these rules—or both—and win, nobody says a word. If you violate one—even to execute the other—and things don’t work out, you will be hanged. By the journalists and other armchair generals and by the court-martial.
On the assumption they hadn’t been spotted, Mike decided to surprise the defenders. He sent Ted Anderson and Jack Kudloe—both twenty-something SEAL petty officers who were still fast and nimble—off to the left to circle around behind the defenders. He, Jerry and Alex Mahan the older members of the team, would provide the diversion.
The first part of the plan seemed to have worked well enough. After Ted and Jack had gotten well clear of them, Mike and his companions continued along their original track, making just enough muted ruckus to attract attention. In due course they’d been spotted and brought under fire, which they returned. Each side was firing M-16s with blanks and lasers, which triggered the sensors attached to every participant’s clothing. Now it was just a matter of avoiding the lasers and waiting for evidence of Ted and Jack’s attack from the rear. Unless, of course, the defenders spotted the two SEALs prematurely or decided to send out a party to track down Mike’s group.
“They’ve got us well pinned down, Boss,” observed Jerry. “You have a backup plan?”
“Try to sprint past them.”
“Umm,” replied Andrews noncommittally, as he wiped away some of the sweat pouring into his already-red eyes.
“I think we may be okay,” said Alex quietly. “Ted and Jack have been circling around for more than half an hour and don’t seem to have been spotted.”
Mike nodded in agreement He’d asked her to talk quietly, while he and Jerry did the opposite, to avoid giving away her gender. While he wasn’t sure how he could make use of it, every little bit of information the other side didn’t have was to his advantage.
Unlike the other members of the Force, Alex had never been in the navy. She had, however, been both a crack CIA analyst and field operative. She possessed a reputation for having a steel-trap mind, a high level of accurate intuition and a ferocious attention to detail. Alex was also fluent in four languages and had an advanced degree in engineering, but her greatest qualification was her network of contacts. She had, over the years, managed to develop and maintain dependable contacts not only in the CIA, but also at the DIA, the NSA, the DEA and most of the countless Homeland Security agencies. In a word, graceful Alex knew everybody. While the politicians in power loved to babble about the seamless cooperation they were building among the various intelligence agencies, the reality was that the cooperation was still far from seamless. No matter what the press releases said, people still had friends and enemies, self-interests, ambitions and agendas.
Suddenly all hell broke loose on the hummock. The volume and rate of gunfire exploded, its crack, crack, crack mixed with loud shouting. Then Mike could hear the pop of dye grenades.
“That’s it,” he shouted, standing as he did. “It’s now or never, so let’s hit it!”
Without waiting for a reply Mike charged forward, as best he could, keeping his graying crew-cut hair below the top of the grass except when he popped up to fire. To his right, Jerry—big, tough but far from young—was doing the same, beginning to pant as his feet sank deep into the mud every few steps. To his left, tall, willowy Alex was gliding over the mud, her long, dark hair made up into a tight bun, as she tried to dance and weave between the stands of stiff, thick grass that Jerry was attempting to bulldoze.
Shortly before they reached the hummock, Mike realized the defenders seemed to have stopped firing. Fifty squishy, slippery paces later he and his team broke into the open and then charged up onto the slightly raised hummock. They came upon the sort of scene that Mike truly hated.
One of the defenders, a big, red-haired guy, was lying on his back. Leaning over him, forcing the barrel of his rifle into the redhead’s neck was Jack Kudloe. The SEAL was screaming, “I killed you, you son of a bitch. I killed you,” over and over again, his face red with uncontrolled fury. The redhead kept trying to protest that he had only been hit in the leg. Ted and two of the defenders, both of whose mud-caked greens were highlighted by dye from the grenades, were trying to pull Kudloe off his victim. So far with little success.
Fury flashed through Mike’s icy blue eyes only to immediately morph into cold calculation. He’d seen it too many times before. Wind a man up too tight, suggest that he was allowed to play by special rules, and you were asking for trouble. No matter how intense their training, many men—under the proper circumstances—lost sight of the objective and, in the process, lost all self-control. And any man who lost control was of no more use to an organization like the Trident Force than would be a mad dog.
The missions assigned to Chambers’s group went far beyond the straightforward sabotage and assassination that characterized so many black ops. They tended to be delicate, complex and infinitely frustrating. Chambers was as interested in self-control, flexibility, brains and a minimum of couth as he was in killing skills. A little sea time was also a big plus.
What irritated him the most at the moment was that he’d personally selected Kudloe not two weeks before to replace a man who’d been badly injured and put on the retired list. Now he discovered that his handpicked replacement suffered from uncontrollable bl
oodlust. Well, damn it, he’d made a mistake.
“Get the hell off that man, Kudloe,” bellowed Chambers.
The enraged SEAL paid no attention whatsoever.
Chambers walked around to Kudloe’s head, stooped down and jammed the barrel of his M-16 under the SEAL’s armpit. He then lifted and pushed on the stock, using the weapon as a lever to pry the attacker off his victim. Kudloe grunted and turned toward him, rage still in his eyes.
“Get off that man immediately!” repeated Chambers.
Kudloe leaned back, taking the pressure off the rifle. “Oh, shit!” he mumbled. Fortunately for him, he didn’t add “fuck you.” Even more fortunately, real knives were not permitted on the firing ranges.
His eyes still pale with anger, Mike glanced to his side at Alex, who was standing with her rifle under her arm. She was shaking her head to herself and looking at Kudloe with an expression of distaste. She understood how things had to be done if the Trident Force was to achieve anything.
A voice squawked out of the radio clipped to Mike’s belt. The same voice emerged at the same time from the radio clipped to the fourth defender, who was thereby marked as the opposition’s leader. Mike and the other leader exchanged glances then both looked up in the sky to where the monitor drone was now slow-flying directly overhead. “The attacking force is scored with having overrun the defending force and suffering no casualties,” announced the stereophonic voice of the exercise mediator, who had been spying on the whole drill from above. “The attacking force is reminded that it has less than two hours remaining to reach and take the objective.”
“Damn!” mumbled the defense leader. He then shrugged his shoulders.
“Good work,” said Mike to his team. “Even you, Kudloe. Up to a point. Now let’s hit the road. We don’t have much time. And Kudloe, your performance for the rest of the day will determine whether I transfer you back to a regular SEAL unit or to storekeepers school or to the brig.”
