One day out of Jakarta, while Slade was wracking his brains trying to think of some way to disable the ship, the environmentalist submersible succeeded in attaching a flotation balloon to one of the three cargo containers. It floated to the surface and was retrieved by the environmental ship which now had the original United Nations inspectors on board.
So confident was the UN and its officials that they agreed to televise the inspection live with news agencies around the world reporting on their every move. There was a party atmosphere on the ship. The inspectors, lined up in their white anti-radiation suits, were treated like astronauts. They were all miked up and more than willing to talk much more than the occasion allowed.
The inspectors looked over the container minutely, pronouncing it sound. All the sensors were in place and there was no evidence of a radiation leak or of seawater leaking into the container. It was pronounced intact.
They weighed it and confirmed that the container weighed exactly what it should. A cheer went up from the environmentalists; America was going down!
The second test was the residual radiation around the container. The inspectors warned the reporters that it should be low—it was—another cheer. Even the reporters were getting into the mood now.
The real test, however, was to open the access panel and sample the atmosphere within the container, just as Slade had done. With exaggerated thoroughness the inspectors opened the panel. They then held up the detector for all to see before plugging it onto the nipple and opening the valve allowing a sample of the inner atmosphere within the container to enter the detector. Closing the valve, again after allowing the cameras to record every movement along the way, the chamber in the detector filled with the gases in the container. Finally they unhooked the detector, took it out of the access panel and read the data aloud.
“The atmosphere inside the container shows—what?” the chief inspector started to read triumphantly. He stopped and showed it to his colleague, muttering aloud, “This can’t be right. There’s radiation but at much lower levels than we expect; and there’s absolutely no indication of Uranium 235 or even Uranium 238 at all. There’s no Uranium period.”
“What’s in there?” a reporter yelled.
The inspectors looked at each other and shrugged, but the chief inspector said, “We won’t know until we open it, but these levels are consistent with one ton of radioactive medical waste. We deal with that all the time.”
“Where is the Uranium?” the reported demanded.
The inspector shrugged again and gave the world the obvious answer, “I don’t know; ask the Iranians.”
The United Nations was not so quickly convinced. They spent the next six hours retrieving the other two containers. By the time the world press watched two more negative tests for Uranium they’d switched sides. It was now remembered how the Americans initially thought something fishy was going on; that is, until the president and the United Nations accepted Iran’s ipso facto explanation.
Now, with righteous indignation the shit really hit the fan.
The Security Council unanimously voted to condemn Iran and impose harsh sanctions, with one abstention—the United States Ambassador was too embarrassed to show up. They wanted to know where the Uranium was, and they wanted to know now. The Iranian delegation responded by walking out.
In the Indian Ocean it was the middle of the night.
Members of the Security Council, behind the scenes of course, rooted out and found the US ambassador. The question was asked: would the president consider storming the Galaxus or if necessary sinking it, because once the Uranium got to Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim nation, it would in all likelihood disappear.
The ambassador replied soberly that the president was flying to Martha’s Vineyard to study the problem.
CHAPTER 37: Skycraning It
As the dark shadow of the large tropical island of Sumatra passed on the starboard side, blotting out the stars of a misty night, it was just the Champion Galaxus, the Iranians and Slade. The flotilla of supporting ship evaporated. Once the Iranian lie was exposed no one was willing to protect the hijacked freighter.
Slade was given the go ahead to try and secure the bridge. He was just gathering up his arsenal in order to take one last, desperate gamble. If he could take the bridge, even for a while, he might disable the ship. That would at least buy time.
The plan was for Slade to take the bridge and hold it. The action should draw the attention of the Iranians, making the Uranium cargo vulnerable. Five minutes after he had the bridge the Deltas would hit the freighter.
If the attack failed the Key West was to torpedo the freighter.
Slade was ready.
He dispatched the two snipers—amazed that they would take time out for prayers on duty—he had a feeling the praying wouldn’t do them any good anyway. The machine gun crew, two men and a Russian made PK, were on the top of the bridge overlooking the ship. They depended on the snipers to cover their back, only the snipers were dead. That made them vulnerable to Slade’s suppressed Makarov.
Slade had regained his nest atop the bridge. Only now he had a machine gun and two Dragunov sniper rifles. That put him in a considerably better mood.
The sound of hydraulic motors resounded over the deck, cutting through the moist tropical air. The cargo hatch over the nuclear containers was opening. They were the folding hatch design, allowing the entire hold to be accessed, the problem was that as the hatch folded upwards it blocked Slade’s view of the hold. He couldn’t tell what was going on down there. Why was Nikahd opening the hold now?
As if to answer his query, the bridge door below him opened and Nikahd himself marched out of the bridge with his security contingent in tow. This was a stroke of luck. The cargo hatch was open so the Deltas could get at the Uranium and Nikahd’s security gorillas were not on the bridge.
As soon as the colonel reached the deck four stories below the bridge Slade called the director. “I’m on my way in!”
There were guards at either door. Slade dropped behind the guard on the starboard side, knifing him as he landed. He was in the shadows and no one in the bridge noticed. Taking a second to drag the body away from the door, Slade took stock of the bridge from the safety of the darkness.
There were four men on the bridge and a guard outside the other door. The guard was facing away. Turning the latch slowly, Slade eased the door open and stepped into the bridge. It was rigged for night, so unnecessary lights were off and the bridge was bathed in a dim red glow. Slade was a shadow.
He stepped inside, moving slowly so as not to attract their attention, and slid into the deeper shadows by the plotting table. He centered the red dot of his P90 on the back of the first man’s head. He’d go for chest shots for the rest, but he wanted the first man to fall cleanly.
Slade squeezed the trigger. The silencer absorbed most of the report from the gunpowder going off; however, it couldn’t do anything about the hollow splash of a head exploding. The man’s head waggled forward and snapped back like someone punched him. He crumpled to the floor. The other three men looked toward the sound, not yet comprehending what was going on. Slade gave each of them a squeeze of the trigger.
The killing hardly made a sound, but the cries of men dying caught the guard’s ear. He turned and saw Slade. The P90 emptied its magazine through the tempered window, showering the guard with glass and bullets.
The man fell. Nikahd and his men stopped and stared up at the bridge. He had a few moments, only that before they rushed him. Striding to the helm Slade ripped the throttles to full stop. A bell rang and the engines wound down. Replacing the cylindrical magazine, Slade emptied it into the bridge control console, shattering anything and everything that looked like a useful piece of equipment.
He plugged a new cylinder in the P90 and prepared to meet Nikahd’s guards. Only they didn’t come. They were trotting with Nikahd, heading for the now open cargo hold. Slade couldn’t understand why until he heard the unmis
takable whine of a turbine engine. All of a sudden it hit him.
“Damn!” he cursed, rushing out of the bridge through the door he entered. He threw caution aside and fired on the first Iranians he saw, trusting to speed and confusion rather than stealth. Several men went down. He rushed past them, firing, changing his magazine on the fly, kicking a wounded man out of the way and pressing on.
Slade skidded to a halt.
There was a high pitched shriek coming from the cargo hold. A pillar of light rose out of the hold and into the night sky. Rising up from the hold, in the center of the shaft of light, was an enormous green helicopter; it looked like some huge insect from an old Godzilla movie.
Slade instantly recognized the machine: a Sikorsky Skycrane, a legendary aircraft that specialized in carrying bulk cargo. Sure enough, strapped behind the cockpit and between the long spindly landing gear were the three containers. The Sikorsky came to a hover, moving forward far enough to allow Nikahd, who was standing on the next cargo hatch, to climb aboard.
“Damn it! I should’ve checked the crate!” Slade told himself, sprinting through the darkness. Several Iranians looked his way but then all Hell broke loose on deck. Like specters from a horror film black shadows spilled over the ships rails spitting fire. The Deltas had arrived.
The two men barring Slade’s path melted to the deck, shot through and through. He pulled himself atop the hatch cover and got up, running hard as the Sikorsky started to rise. Slade leapt, grabbing the edge of the platform on which the containers rode, throwing the crook of his right arm around the frame of the cargo platform. It was a precarious hold at best. Slade slung a leg up and hooked his heel inside a cargo strap. With his left hand, he grasped the clip for his rappelling line and snapped it onto the D-Ring through which the strap ran.
The Sikorsky banked and Slade lost his grip, falling off the platform. He landed hard back on the cargo hatch cover. He cursed as the pain coursed up his back, but over the cacophony, somehow he heard his name called.
“Slade!”
He looked to his left and saw Kincaid standing there in amazement. “Killer!”
The Sikorsky was flying away, climbing hard, and already taking fire from the Deltas. There was something strange about the sound though. It took a second before Slade looked down to see his hundred foot long rope reeling out like a mad fishing line.
“Oh shit!”
The chopper snatched Slade off the deck like a minnow on a hook.
CHAPTER 38: Phase Two
Abdullereda Hussein awakened to someone shaking his shoulder violently. He awoke with a start, disturbing the two Western slaves that had serviced him the night before.
“What is it, what is it!” he stammered, covering his eyes, shielding them from the light shining in his face. The light of the room snapped on and he focused on a man, the man shaking him, and the two men in black uniforms behind him.
The girls shrank away in fear, but the man addressed Abdullereda again. He wasn’t angry or judgmental, he was excited. “Captain!” That’s what they all called him. “Captain, it is time! It is time!”
“Time for what?” he complained groggily, looking at the clock. “It’s three in the morning. What can it possibly be time for?”
“Paradise!” the man said emphatically.
“Oh!”
“Come, we’ve brought your uniform,” he said, helping Abdullereda out of bed. “Quickly, go in and shower and shave. We have men getting the aircraft ready as we speak.”
“Excellent!” he said, still groggy. He stumbled into the bath. The girls were herded in behind him.
“Wash him thoroughly,” the man ordered. “He is a Holy Warrior! He must be cleansed for his mission.”
The girls did as they were told, scrubbing him down from head to foot, shaving him, and even brushing his teeth for him. When he was cleaned and dried they dressed him. Only when they had him perfect did they open the door and allow him out.
The man surveyed Abdullereda with satisfaction and nodded, “Perfect! Come with me. It is time to go.”
Abdullereda followed the man outside. There was a limousine waiting for them. The man opened the door and let Abdullereda in first. He got in and sat down. As he did so the sound of two shots could be heard in the house. A moment later the two jihadists came out. They got in. The smell of cordite was strong in the car. As the limousine pulled away Abdullereda could already see flames licking at the windows and smoke rising up into the sky.
They arrived at the airport in twenty minutes. The limousine drove straight to the hanger where guards stood outside the hanger doors. Stopping in front of the doors, the driver opened his window. When the guard approached he said simply, “We have the captain!”
“Allahu Akbar!” saluted the guard and he stepped away.
The hanger doors opened and the limousine pulled into the brightly lit area. A freshly painted A380 sat there in the white, blue and gold of Singapore Airlines. Around the aircraft in orderly ranks were hundreds of jihadists. They drove past the men. The stare of their dark eyes was palpable; he could feel their envy. Every man wanted to be him at this moment. His heart swelled with pride.
The limousine drove him right up to the airstairs. Waiting there were several men and imams. The driver got out and opened the door, standing at attention when Abdullereda stepped out. He went up to the men waiting for him, all of whom he either had met or knew. They offered their best wishes, kissing his cheeks and shaking his hand.
“Everything is ready then,” he said with finality.
“The cargo should arrive momentarily,” the imam said. “We need to be ready to go as soon as it is loaded.”
“I understand,” he answered. He climbed the stars and entered the aircraft. Turning left he walked into the cockpit. Everything was clean. The carpet even smelled new. Everything was as it should be. It suddenly hit Abdullereda that he would never leave this aircraft as a living man.
#
Slade found himself dangling in the darkness on the end of his rope. Fortunately he wore a five point harness over his wetsuit. If he just had a belt the shock might have broken him in two. As it was the helicopter snatching him from the deck of the freighter qualified as a very nasty carnival ride.
The freighter was dwindling in the distance. Everything else was black. He could hardly see the helicopter. It was flying without lights. The only illumination was the ruddy red glow of the jet exhaust from the twin Pratt and Whitney engines.
Slade grabbed hold of the rope and then splayed his legs out, steadying himself. Slowly he climbed the rope, feeding the line through the brake and working his way back up to the payload. When he finally reached the platform he climbed onto it, but there was little or no rest there. Despite the relatively slow speed of the Sikorsky its forward movement still created a vacuum in the slipstream which constantly tried to pull Slade off the platform.
He had to find a better solution. That turned out to be climbing atop the containers. There was about eighteen inches of room between Slade and the bottom of the Skycrane’s spine. It got him out of the slipstream and allowed him to rest; and to think.
His phone buzzed. Cradling his arm around his mouth to cut down the wind noise he answered. It was the director.
“Slade where are you?”
“I’m on the chopper, can’t you hear it?”
“Are you with the cargo?”
“Yes, I’m lying on top of all three containers. I’m guessing we’re on the way to Jakarta.”
“The Delta’s are leaving the ship and heading to Jakarta,” he said. “They cleaned up the freighter without too much trouble. All the terrorists have been neutralized. The ship is back in the hands of Captain Fletcher and he has a Navy security detail and escort to Jakarta. What’s your plan?”
“Sir, I didn’t know I had a plan.”
“The Delta’s should be waiting for you. There shouldn’t be any more need for heroics. Ride it out and let them secure Nikahd and the cargo.”
“We’ll follow your flight,” the director told him. After a long pause the director told him, “Slade, we’re not getting a signal through your GPS.”
“I’m not surprised, the voice transmission is omnidirectional, but the GPS requires line of sight with several satellites. I’m under the chopper’s fuselage on top of the containers. ”
“Can you get me a hit?”
Slade crawled to the edge of the container, warning Gann, “It’s going to get noisy!” He held the phone out from under the fuselage, expecting the noise from the rotorwash to drown out all sound. What he didn’t count on was the force of the rotorwash catching the phone and flinging it out of his hand.
There was a sinking feeling reaching all the way down into the pit of Slade’s stomach. He could only call himself stupid for so long before the business of terrorism and survival focused his mind on the near term future.
He tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. The chopper was obviously heading to Jakarta, probably to the loading docks where the cargo would be unloaded and dispersed amongst the Al Qaeda cells. From there the terrorists could attack dozens of cities or venues worldwide with terrible effect.
Nikahd had an ingenious back up plan with the Sikorsky, but it was too late. They’d been found out. When he landed the helo Killer and his Deltas would be there to greet them. Game over. Still, something nagged at Slade. No matter how he analyzed it he couldn’t shake the suspicion that he’d missed something.
#
Killer scowled. He’d hopped on an Osprey as soon as the fight was over. The Osprey could fly over twice as fast as they Sikorsky so the idea was to get ahead of Slade and be waiting for him in Jakarta.
That part worked perfectly. Killer was in his battle fatigues at seaport; he was an imposing sight. Once the White House talked to the Indonesian President everything was smoothed over and he had the run of the place. There was only one problem, and he told General Mertzl about it.
The Ghost of Flight 666 Page 29
