“What in the world can they have in there?” he wondered but that was a secondary consideration. Slade needed to get down there and fast. There was no telling when Nikahd would send more men. He waited for the men to make their circuit beneath him before stepping through the hatch. Slade closed the hatch behind him and descended the stairs, keeping a close eye on the guards. Their backs were turned and there was absolutely no chance of them hearing him.
This was a dry goods cargo vessel, so it didn’t carry oil; therefore, there was no need for a double hull. The waves beat upon the hull without mercy, making the interior of the hold a ringing, banging drum. That was fine as long as you weren’t inside it.
By the time the guards turned the corner Slade was on the floor. He slunk to the cargo containers, sliding into the shadows between two of smaller containers and the big one. It was almost pitch black there and Slade was nearly invisible in his black wetsuit. Taking out his test kit, Slade ran through the same radiation tests that the UN inspectors used: testing the exterior levels and then opening a small door in the container that gave him access to a valve.
The valve had a nipple designed to accept a fitting for a detector. Slade screwed his detector on it and opened the valve. Once he got a reading he closed the valve back up. This allowed a minute amount of gas from within the container to be analyzed by the detector.
It took only a moment for the detector to display the results: the cargo container had gas that had been exposed to Uranium 235. There was no longer any doubt.
He packed up his kit and secreted it within his belt. It was time to leave. First though, he wanted a look in the big container. What could the Iranians have in there?
A quick inspection showed that it was locked. He could cut through it with his tungsten cutter, but the sparks would alert the Iranians. It would have to wait. Slade had to get word to the director as quickly as possible.
Repeating his ingress in reverse, Slade climbed the stair swiftly and then exiting through the access hatch, at least that was the plan. As he reached for the latch on the hatch Slade heard voices on the other side. As he placed his hand on the latch it began to move.
Slade looked wildly around; there was nowhere to hide.
CHAPTER 33: Showering
Trapped, Slade turned off the single light, drifted back into the corner and drew his forty-five. The door opened and one man stepped into the darkness, barely visible from the dim light outside the hatch. He stopped and made a comment in Farsi about the darkness.
He waited, not wanting to give himself away unless he absolutely had to. The man fumbled for the light switch, found it, and turned it on. His back was to Slade. He turned away and headed down the stairs. A second man came in, closing the hatch behind him. He followed the first man, not glancing to either side, not noticing the dark silhouette of Slade in the general dim light. Both men disappeared into the hold.
They were the relief guards for the two downstairs.
Slade ducked out the hatch. The deck outside was empty. He made his way carefully back to the roof of the bridge but once there he was in for an unpleasant surprise. He tried to call the director on his satellite phone but all he got was static. No matter what channel he tried he got the same thing.
The Iranians had learned to jam.
How was he going to let the director know what he found out? The answer was almost too easy. The ship’s locker was easy to find and even easier to break into. He quickly found what he needed: a large brush and a pail of white paint. He took these back to the middle hold, easily avoiding the one patrol Nikahd had on deck, and then he dropped over the side.
As part of his harness Slade had a built in rappel brake and a hundred feet of nylon rope. He secured the black, rubber coated carbine to the rail and rappelled down the side. Then he got to work. It wasn’t true art, but Slade was certain he got the message across. He rappelled back up and returned to the bridge, quite pleased with his ingenuity.
The next part of his plan was to wait. Perched on the bridge with the dark coast of Iran blotting out the stars on one horizon and the coast of Oman on the other horizon, Slade was without friends, except for the Key West which he assumed was shadowing the Galaxus. Fortunately, out in the Arabian Sea was the Enterprise and her Task Force. They were friends indeed.
Nikahd was on the bridge with an all Iranian crew manning the helm and providing guard duty. The only other visible guards were the two men patrolling the deck and two men standing watch over the entrance to the crew’s prison.
He crept to the back hatch that opened onto the captain’s private deck and peered through the port hole. The captain was not to be seen, but Eva was there getting ready to shrug on her nightgown. The momentary sight of her naked, nubile body was almost enough to make the entire ordeal worthwhile.
In the space of a moment she was clothed again. She crept into bed, looking beautifully composed considering there was no way out for her, her husband the captain or anyone else on the crew. As soon as Jakarta was within view their value as hostages would be nil; their lifespan thereafter would be almost as short.
#
At dawn, twenty-six hours after the Key West started to shadow the Galaxus, the first officer of the American submarine woke Captain Mars up.
“Sir, you’re going to want to see this,” he said.
The captain pulled on his uniform and joined the first officer on the bridge. He went straight to the periscope which was already pointing at the Galaxus. He took one look and said, “What the Hell? That wasn’t there yesterday!”
“No it wasn’t,” the first officer replied.
“We got pictures right?”
“Yes sir!”
“Well send them to FLEETCOM pronto!”
On the USS Enterprise Admiral Norman and Captain Buckminster were in the conference room with Captain ‘Killer’ Kincaid. Director Gann was on speaker. All parties were staring at a picture taken from the periscope of the Key West; a picture of a big freighter. Captain Buckminster was briefing everyone.
“The Galaxus is a Suezmax with a length of 307 meters and a beam of 68 meters. Her empty weight is slightly over 150,000 tons. She is a bulk carrier. Her holds normally carry raw materials. However, we believe after the Key West’s observations that she’s now carrying the missing three containers filled with three tons of Uranium 235; the new paint scheme would tend to confirm the Key West’s findings.”
Amidships on the black hull someone painted a very large “U235”. Above it were painted the numbers “7500 (200).” Below the numbers there was a rude but recognizable bullseye.
The voice of the director came over the conference line. “I would say that Agent Slade has confirmed our suspicions. They have the Uranium 235 on board.”
“What’s the ‘7500’ mean?” said the admiral.
Killer explained, “It’s an aviation transponder code used to alert air traffic control of a hijacking. We’re guessing the number in parentheses is the number of hijackers—Iranian military no doubt.”
“Two hundred!” the admiral started. “That takes storming the ship out of the equation.”
“Sir, these are Iranian troops, they are predictable,” Killer said with calm confidence. “A ship is a tight battlefield. Careful use of force can easily negate numbers. We just need to carry enough ammunition.”
“I would have expected as much from a Delta Force,” the admiral replied with a frown. “Captain, I need a realistic assessment. I know your record; bravado is not necessary.”
“With all due respects sir, I just finished an operation in open country with a four man team, myself and Agent Slade against a force of about a hundred Tangos.” Kincaid said seriously, but then he smiled in an unpleasant manner. “The only hitch in the mission was getting Agent Slade to stop hogging the Tangos all to himself. If we leave him to it he’ll get it in his head to do this by himself, mark my words.”
The admiral looked to Kincaid and then to the picture of the director, who frowned
and sighed.
“Captain Kincaid has extensive experience with Agent Slade, but in this case it’s not the Tangos that concern me: it’s the cargo. We now know the Key West wasn’t chasing what the Administration called ‘an illusion.’ This is what we were afraid of. By the ship’s filed route she’s bound for Jakarta which has as many Al Qaeda cells as it has mosques—a lot.”
The admiral chewed on his pencil, saying after a moment of reflection, “There’s the Indian Ocean between the Arabian Sea and Indonesia. That’s about eight or nine days of sailing; a great deal can happen in that time if we give the word.” He looked around the table and finished his thought. “The Iranians want us to think that the Uranium is at the bottom of the sea. Why not make it real? Instead of calling the Iranians on their lie why don’t we make it come true? The Key West could make this problem disappear—literally.”
“What about the freighters crew?” Sorensen interjected.
“If they’re not dead already they soon will be,” the admiral said gravely. “We know how these Islamists operate. There’s no need to keep the crew alive if they can run the ship.”
“You’re right,” Gann replied with a serious and troubled expression. “That is the way the Islamists and jihadists operate. However, in this case there is a good chance the crew will be kept alive for a while at least as hostages. One thing these Islamists have learned is the West’s almost insane desire to secure the lives of its people. If they run into trouble they’ll have the hostages as bargaining chips.”
“An insane desire you say?” the admiral asked.
“Admiral, they have no problem killing their own people whereas we will move Heaven and Earth to save one,” Gann said stoically. “The Israelis just traded a thousand killers for one Israeli. We let these very Iranians hold our people for over a year before brokering a deal to get them back. Believe me, we’ve taught them the value of keeping hostages.”
“You don’t approve?” the admiral pressed.
Gann answered immediately and forcefully. “When I consider the repercussions of three tons of enriched Uranium in the hands of terrorists, no, I do not approve. The hostages are expendable. So is Slade and he knows it.”
“Then we’re back with the Key West solution,” the admiral sighed. He pointed to the screen and the bullseye painted in the ship. “Your boy’s even given us the location of the uranium—nice job—Captain Mars can probably sink the ship precisely enough to keep the Uranium intact in their containers. We can salvage it with a deep sea submersible with no one the wiser.”
The director brought up the white elephant in the room, saying with accumulated frustration, “The current administration—meaning the president—will never, and I say never, allow the navy to sink a civilian freighter no matter what the threat or the cargo.”
“We’d have an easier time convincing the Pope to let us sink it, that’s for sure,” Kincaid agreed.
“The Pope’s already given us his blessing to stop these people,” Gann commented. “However, it took six months to get permission for a limited strike, SEALS, Deltas and CIA on ISIS leadership—six months! We have ten days or less before the freighter enters Indonesian waters.”
The admiral spread his arms wide, and growled, “So what’s the plan? We can’t just sit back and do nothing.”
“Let the Deltas secure the Uranium,” Killer said.
“They’re sure to kill the hostages as soon as they get wind of it,” the admiral said.
“You’re forgetting we have a man on board,” the director told the admiral. “That will be something our agent will be working on. If he can affect the escape of the crew then this will be a much easier sale to the White House.”
“I assume you’re briefing the president as soon as you’re through with us.”
The director smiled mirthlessly at the admiral. “It’s the middle of the night in D.C. I’ve already informed the White House Chief of Staff. He’s scheduled five minutes for me in the morning. The president is of the firm opinion that the Uranium is at the bottom of the Strait of Hormuz and that considering the sensitivity of the area it is unrecoverable.”
“He wants to drop this?” the admiral said, incredulous.
“In the worst way,” the director replied. “He wants the problem to just go away.”
“Then we should make it go away,” growled Kincaid. He took the admiral’s eyes with his own steely gaze. “Let Slade get the hostages off the ship and then give my team the green light. We’ll get that Uranium out of there with no one the wiser.”
“Then the crew can return to their ship,” Gann nodded. “We can blame pirates from Oman. No one needs to know.”
The admiral squirmed, and said, “That’s going rogue—isn’t it? I’ve served four presidents with stars on my shoulder. I don’t know if I can go that far.”
“Hopefully we won’t have to,” the director said quickly. “That’s pushing the boundaries; however, I have hope that the president will see the necessity of keeping the Uranium from ever getting to Jakarta.”
“Let’s hope so,” the admiral agreed. Then he shook his head. “How’s your boy going to get the crew off? That’s fifty people he’s got to move under the nose of the Iranians.”
“I’m sure he’s working on it admiral,” the director said confidently, hoping inwardly that Slade was indeed thinking along those lines.
#
As it was, Slade was indeed thinking along those lines, albeit in his own way. He’d waited until Eva and the captain were asleep before stealing into their cabin and hiding in the bathroom. The shower stall wasn’t huge but it served as a makeshift bunk; he’d had more uncomfortable nights before.
It was Eva that woke him up in the morning, or rather her exclamation, “What are you doing?” that roused him. Slade jumped to his feet before realizing the bathroom was still pitch dark. So it wasn’t him that she was audibly upset with; was it Nikahd or some of the Iranians? His blood boiled.
No, it wasn’t any of those.
The hardly audible sound of a TV commentator buzzed in his ears. He knew the voice—Paul Allen—the voice of the Minnesota Vikings. Slade was now fully awake.
“Do you have to watch the game at five in the morning?”
“Dear, it’s on live!” Christian Fletcher responded.
A groan of exasperation approached the door. “You and your Vikings!”
She turned the light on in the bath, did her business and brushed her teeth. Tucking her flowing mane of black hair under a yellow shower cap blotched with bright green leopard spots, she hung up her gown and opened the shower curtain to find Slade appraising her nakedness with a smile.
“Hello Eva, it’s good to see you again,” he said in a soft voice.
Eva was too surprised to say or do anything for a moment; then she snatched her gown from the hook and covered herself.
“You!” she started to say, but Jeremiah took one step and covered her mouth with his hand. Holding a finger to his lips he brought her into the shower and closed the curtain.
To her consternation he turned on the shower, holding a finger to his lips. “Keep it down!” he whispered in her ear. “Nikahd’s a clever fellow. I wouldn’t put it past him to have your cabin bugged.” He took her gown from her and hung it back on the hook. “You’re supposed to be showering; so shower.”
She glared at him, whispering harshly, “What are you doing here—Mr. Slade—are you the one behind this?”
“Actually until a few hours ago I thought you might be involved with this yourself.”
“Me? You saw what they did to those poor crew members out there didn’t you?”
“That’s what these people do to everyone who doesn’t believe as they do Eva!” he said seriously. “I would have warned you about Nikahd if I could have. As it is, I’m going to try to make sure it doesn’t get any worse. I’m going to need your help, but first things first, we need to keep up appearances. That means you shower,” he told her firmly, handing her the s
oap. “Get to it. Nikahd will expect you to be nice and clean.” When she hesitated, he scowled. “Come on, I’m serious. We’ve already got nine dead friendlies; we don’t want any more. Nikahd is not one to be trifled with.”
“All right,” she said, turning away from him and dutifully scrubbing up. “Who are you really; and what’s this all about?”
“I’m CIA and this is all about the Iranians using your ship to get three tons of enriched Uranium to Soekarno,” he said gravely.
“Soekarno, surely you don’t think he’s involved in this!” she said sternly.
“Keep it down!” Slade told her ardently. He shuffled around the tight shower so he could see her face and read her eyes. It was close, very close. Dark eyes locked with Eva’s deep brown orbs, he continued, “Why wouldn’t Soekarno be involved? You don’t know him like we do Eva. International terrorism is new to Soekarno, maybe, but he’s one of the great manipulators of this world. His file at the Company reads like War and Peace!”
“Then you should know he draws the line at these terrorist scum!” she said with surprising violence. “He wouldn’t acquire Uranium for terrorists, not for all the wealth and power in the world! He hates them!”
“Don’t try and convince me that he has a conscience,” Slade told her emphatically.
The accusation appeared to stun Eva, but she countered with logic and not emotion. “What good would it do him if terrorists like ISIS triumph? He’s a capitalist. Soekarno doesn’t want to give up his wealth to socialists and fanatics. He’s spent his entire life trying to get out of poverty. Do you really think he’d give that up to hand over power to a bunch of unwashed imams who would behead him for his lifestyle? Think about it Slade!”
“Are you telling me this ploy with the sand was for real?”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” she said.
“So it’s Nikahd and the Iranians who are using Soekarno for cover,” he said soberly. “They want the Uranium in Jakarta—why?”
“I have no idea,” Eva told him. “What are you going to do?”
The Ghost of Flight 666 Page 26
