The Ghost of Flight 666

by Christopher Anderson

  The deck was a busy place. There were four big hatches on the freighter. Only one was open. It was between Slade and the bridge. A crane lowered a railroad car sized container into the hold. Several men were on the deck watching, and beyond them on the elevated bridge Slade saw the captain overseeing the operation. He was a large man, probably six-five or so. It could only be Eva’s husband Christian Fletcher.

  Jake was about to call up the next Delta Force when there was a commotion on deck. The crane operator was either inexperienced or lazy. He started the container down before having it over the hatch and as a result the container started to swing.

  The captain was furious, yelling orders in English. The Iranians on deck yelled back in Farsi and the crane operator stopped the descent of the container suddenly. It jerked around, spinning now, threatening to foul the chain. The captain yelled to the man closest to them, who turned out to be the first mate, directing him to go relieve the crane operator.

  The mate ran toward Slade and Killer. They ducked into the shadow around the corner, out of sight. Whether by sight, sound or feel the mate sensed something wrong. They could hear him stop and walk back toward them.

  “Johnny!” yelled the captain. “What the Hell are you waiting for?”

  The mate stopped and looked quickly around the corner. There was nothing to see except black wetsuits and black equipment enveloped by black night. Slade saw the man’s expression, he wasn’t ten feet away, but they were invisible.

  “Nothing,” he yelled back. “I’ll be there in a minute!”

  Both Slade and Killer breathed a sigh of relief. When the first mate was gone all attention on deck shifted to the hung up container. In less than a minute the other four Deltas were topside.

  Leaving the two teams below to secure the deck if need be, Killer and Slade made their way aft to the bridge. With all the attention paid to the wayward container and the sensitive swap of crane operators—the Iranians weren’t happy and they voiced it—it was another fifteen minutes before loading could resume. By then Slade and Killer were secreted in the darkness on the roof of the bridge.

  Slade leaned over the edge of the steel roof and put a small microphone in the corner of the bridge’s port window. Dialing in the frequency of the bug gave them a hollow sounding but clear transmission. The captain was on the phone with someone and he wasn’t happy.

  “The Iranians are the ones who fouled things up. I’m fixing what they’ve screwed up; I told them I wanted to use my man but now they’ve got their panties in a wad!”

  He waited, while the person on the other end of the line commented. Whatever was said, it didn’t placate him.

  “Well I don’t like that one bit,” he said hotly. “These military guys are all fanatics and they’re incompetent to boot. Don’t worry. I’ll get things back on schedule, just tell them to let me do my job! The sooner we’re out of here the better I’ll like it.”

  There was another pause while he listened impatiently.

  “I won’t breathe easy until we are,” he admitted. “Really, all this for a shitload of sand, are you kidding? I think Soekarno’s cracked—no offense intended. I mean, I like the wages I make under him, but what I don’t like is putting my ship and crew in danger—I don’t care how important this is to him—screw his legacy!”

  There was a longer than usual pause. When he spoke again, the captain’s voice while still incredulous was more controlled.

  “Don’t listen to me. I’m just torqued because I have to deal with these Iranians—they’re like the Nazis for crying out loud—just as arrogant but nowhere half as competent! That and I was just sitting down to watch the replay of the Vikes-Titans game. Now dear, I know it’s preseason!”

  That reminded Slade of his evening plans. “Damn it, I was looking forward to watching that on the Enterprise as well; it’ll be over by the time we get back!”

  “You two would get along just fine!” Killer whispered incredulously.

  The captain continued more gently than he would in any conversation with another man. “Hey honey, don’t worry about it; I may not understand it, but if it’s important to you it’s important to me. I’ll make sure the old man gets his special Iranian sand.” The captain laughed. “I’m just wondering, why Iranian sand? He wasn’t born in Iran; he’s Indonesian. What is it about sand from Iran? Well, Okay, I suppose he’s rich enough to be eccentric. Hey honey, I got to go. We’ve got to get these containers loaded.”

  He said good bye to the woman they guessed to be his wife, and he immediately returned to his walkie talkie, coordinating with his first mate, who had commandeered the crane much to the displeasure of the Iranian dockworkers.

  “You tell them I’ll come down there personally and knock some heads if I have to; let’s just get this done and leave!”

  After another hour of complaining he sighed, “It looks like they’re done; okay boys button her up! We need to be ready to go tonight!”

  The next two hours were all about getting the big ship going. As they attended that, Slade and Killer quitted the bridge and made their way below to the cargo holds. As everything had already been checked it was relatively easy to get into the hold and then very simple to check the three containers.

  Climbing on top of the first container, Slade took out his Geiger counter, holding it in various places around the container—there was no reading. He went to the access hatch and looked again; yet again there was nothing. He scowled, telling Killer, “There should at least be some residual radiation no matter how well they hid it.”

  Carefully Slade opened the hatch a crack. He snaked a small hollow tube in and turned on the spectrum analyzer. It drew in the air from the inside of the container. Once again there was nothing. Frustrated, Slade threw caution to the wind and opened the door, shining his flashlight inside.

  He stared at the contents in amazement.

  “What is it; what’s inside?” Killer demanded.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Slade told him.

  Before Slade could answer a heavy rumbling coursed through the ship. “Whoa! They’re starting the engines!” Killer said. “If we don’t want a one way ride to Jakarta we better get going!”

  CHAPTER 29: Change of Plans

  In the situation room the Director of the CIA was getting an urgent call from Slade via the Enterprise battle group. He moved away from the dogfight going on between General Mertzl and NSA Chairwoman Carrabolla.

  “Slade, I need the status of that cargo in Bandar Abbas and I need it now!”

  “I’m in the hold of the ship as we speak sir,” he said quickly. “Both the Geiger counter and the spectrum analyzer confirm the cargo is clean, there’s no radioactivity, not even medical waste.”

  “What is the cargo then?” he said with surprise.

  “Silicates—sand—sir, it’s just as advertised,” he replied.

  He looked over to Mertz and Carrabolla. They were still arguing, but then the president’s face appeared on the situation room screen. “I’ve got to go; we’re about to find out how the president is going to play this—if he plays it at all. Slade, I still think that ship is going to do more than transport sand. We’ll play my hunch. Get the Delta Force off the ship but Slade, you stay put! Don’t get yourself killed until you figure this out!”

  “Yes sir!”

  The director approached the screen where National Security Advisor Carrabolla and General Mertzl squared off with the president. If President Oetari looked put out before he was nearly livid now.

  “What is so important that my schedule needs to be interrupted,” he demanded. “I have very important people waiting for me in Texas. The prospect of me losing the Senate is riding on this and you want me to listen to some vague hunches of yours based on what a submarine heard in the Straits of Hormuz?”

  “We know exactly what he Iranians have done; we have the bastards on a meat hook!” the general announced.

  “General, Iran is a proud nation; they are our equ
al,” the president said stonily. “I would appreciate you referring to them with the respect due a sovereign nation much older than ours.”

  “Mr. President the attack sub Key West clearly picked up the sonar signature of an Iranian midget sub rendezvousing with the vessel carrying the Iranian Uranium. She tracked the midget sub to the vessel, heard it docking, and then tracked it moving away. There can be no doubt that something took place under cover of the freighter’s distress.”

  “Why didn’t the satellite see anything,” Oetari demanded. “Why am I asked to make a decision based on a submarine hearing something?”

  “The satellite’s infra-red cameras were degraded significantly by flares sir,” he answered.

  “What about visually. Don’t we have ships in the area with Night Vision Goggles or something?”

  “They could not see into the ship’s hold,” the general told the president. “We conjecture that’s why the Iranians used this particular ship. It has the ability to open cargo doors in the bottom of the hold. It’s a large enough opening for an Iranian midget sub to enter the hold where the Uranium is being stored.”

  “Sir, this is all conjecture, and a bit too much like a James Bond movie for my taste,” Carrabolla interjected. “Once daylight arrives we can easily ascertain the status of the Iranian nuclear material. Even if a transfer was made we have UN inspectors in Abu Dhabi. If the general is that concerned we can simply have the containers retested. Rest assured there’s no way for the Iranians to pull a fast one. My advice is to let the UN take the lead on this; they know what they’re doing. This is their specialty.”

  “My President, we have the Iranians dead to rights!” General Mertzl argued. “A rendezvous took place; there’s no doubt about it. We need to find out what transpired.”

  “How?”

  “The Key West is tracking the midget sub as we speak,” he replied quickly. It is heading northeast toward Bandar Abbas where coincidently there’s a freighter waiting in the navy yard scheduled to head to Jakarta.”

  “What about Jakarta?” the president asked suspiciously, not hiding his close ties to the island nation of his birth.

  “Sir perhaps the Director of the CIA should speak on this matter,” General Mertzl told him.

  “This better not have anything to do with your wild missing airplane theories,” the president said skeptically.

  “Mr. President, as you no doubt know Al Qaeda has a firm grip on Indonesia, especially in Jakarta, and combined with the heavy Marxist presence in the islands it makes it a dangerous destination for Iranian fissile material.”

  “The Indonesians have assured us they have a lid on all of the terrorist cells; their influence and effectiveness is highly exaggerated,” the president told him firmly.

  “Sir, that runs contrary to every report we have and to every briefing I’ve given you,” the director replied. “I urge you not to discount the danger of this material falling into unfriendly hands.”

  “How is it to get there?” the president asked. “If the midget sub heads that way—if they even have the nuclear material—can’t the Key West just sink it?”

  “Will you authorize the strike Mr. President?” General Mertzl asked with renewed hope.

  “Not without a great deal more information gentlemen,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid all you’ve got is conjecture and boogie men. There’s just nothing to this.” He paused, seeing that his military men were on the point of rebellion. “All right, wait until daylight. If anything still looks out of place call me and I’ll have Turkey ask the United Nations to retest the containers in Abu Dhabi—it won’t look so bad then—satisfied? Now, I’m going to Texas.”

  #

  Slade received the director’s orders with the steady sense of duty inherent to his naturally taciturn personality. On the bright side, he thought, he wouldn’t have to endure another night swim.

  The Deltas departed, though not without Killer first securing Slade’s sled to the freighter’s hull with a magnetic tether.

  “Good luck buddy,” he told Slade with a pat on the back. “Stay quiet and stay low. We’ll be back to get you as soon as we get the word.”

  “Have a good swim through the Iranian sludge,” Slade replied. “Remember to shower before you smoke!”

  Killer wrinkled his nose at the petroleum stench emanating from their wetsuits. Climbing over the side he disappeared in the darkness, leaving Slade to the mercy of the Galaxus.

  The deckhands were almost done securing the main hatches. That meant everyone was busy. Slade slunk through the shadows to the superstructure. He set up shop atop the bridge where he could see everything that was going on as well as listen to his bug on the bridge.

  His expectation was that the activity aboard the Galaxus would wind down now that the cargo was secured. He was wrong.

  The captain, a tall bull of a man, six-five if he was an inch, towered over his crew. He had no patience for the local dockworkers, whom he called lazy and incompetent. From what Slade saw, he was right. Still, now that his cargo was on board Slade was curious as to why the captain should be so overtly demanding. He appeared agitated by something, and nothing anyone could do was good enough.

  The explanation for the captain’s discomfiture was as amusing as it was surprising. Half an hour later a limousine pulled alongside the freighter. The captain walked down the gangway to meet it. He opened the back door and held out his hand to someone in the car. Slade focused his binoculars on the cabin. The flash of sequins sparkled from the darkness; sequins attached to a dark blue dress. An elegant hand reached out and took the captain’s huge paw. The captain grinned widely, helping the slight, elegantly dressed woman from the limousine. It was Eva.

  “Well, well, well, the plot thickens,” Slade muttered to himself, recording the scene on his digital binoculars. “Why are you personally supervising the shipment of a boatload of sand?”

  The captain led Eva up the gangway and into the superstructure. Slade left his position, determined to find out what was so important about the cargo. The captain’s quarters were in the superstructure behind the bridge and the adjacent conference room. There was a small back door, actually a hatch, leading out to a small deck on the starboard side of the ship. There were several portholes for the captain’s cabin.

  Slade dropped off the roof and put a bug in the porthole. Pressing a tiny button activated the transmitter. Their voices came distant but clear into his earbud.

  “Not that I’m disappointed to see you dear but Bandar Abbas is a cesspool, especially the military harbor. The civilian side of the house is bad enough but this place—whew—why am I here?”

  “Simple, Soekarno has an emotional attachment to this project. He’s been dreaming of this since he was a kid.”

  “Really, this is all about the dreams of a kid from the ghetto?” the captain exclaimed. “That’s why I’m in a restricted harbor with Iranians crawling all over my ship and their religious crazies scaring the Hell out of my crew? I don’t buy it Eva; what’s more I don’t like it. I almost tossed one of those fanatic officers overboard for snooping around.”

  “Don’t do that!” Eva scolded him, but in a softer tone she asked what they were looking for.

  “I had the Vikes game on the bridge monitor,” the captain explained. “When the cameras cut to the sidelines and showed the cheerleaders he about had a cow. He wanted to rip the monitor of the wall! I almost picked his little ass up and tossed him overboard. Really, he was that close to taking a swim!” The captain held his meaty fingers together just short of touching.

  Eva laughed and suggested they go outside and get some fresh air.

  “If its fresh air you want this isn’t the place,” the captain told her. Glancing within, he caught sight of the captain and Eva just as they were heading toward the hatch leading out to the deck. Slade smoothly transitioned into the shadows. His black wetsuit hid him as effectively as any camouflage.

  The hatch opened and the captain let E
va through first, continuing their conversation. “So are you going to tell me what this is all about or are you keeping me in the dark for a reason?” When she didn’t answer immediately he took her by the shoulders and gently but inexorably turned the tiny woman around to face him.

  “Eva, we’re in one of the most backward, dangerous countries on the planet. We’re dealing with people who hate us, hate our lives and hate our civilization—and for what? I’m your husband; I have a right to know why we’re here don’t I?”

  Eva crossed her arms over her bosom and frowned. Shaking her mane of black, perfectly coiffured hair, she emoted, “I hate this place as much as you do! I don’t like dealing with these people but there it is. This started as nothing more than what I told you: a shipment of sand for an eccentric billionaire’s childhood dream. I’m afraid it’s turning into something more than that.”

  “What’s it turning into?”

  Before she could answer the hatch to the cabin opened. In the frame stood a tall man in a military uniform. He was tall by local standards but still half a foot beneath the captain. The effect of his presence on Eva and the captain was immediate—and sobering—Colonel Nikahd.

  “Good evening Eva. Good evening Captain Fletcher. Here you are.” He walked out onto the little deck, passing not three feet from Slade in the long, inky shadows. He smiled, and unknowingly turned his back on Slade. “Captain Fletcher, I expected to find you on the bridge.”

  “Why?” the captain said carefully. “Our cargo is loaded and secured. We’re ready to go as ordered. What’s the problem Colonel? I assure you my crew has strict orders to remain aboard the ship. We realize how sensitive this port is; of course, we would rather have used the civilian port.”

  “Captain, captain, I know you had no desire to come here and risk violating our sensitive military secrets over a load of sand; I completely understand. You have done nothing wrong.”