Blackout (19 page)

Tuesday, September 1, 4:15 p.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

Scott picked up the phone, then put it back down.
Come on, don't be a wuss! What would Jim Hicks do?
He picked up the phone . . . then put it back down.

Scott had received an urgent message from Rick Bellefeuille.
Of all people to deal with today, why him?
Back when Jim Hicks was in charge, Scott would have handed the message off to him, and Jim would have been glad to have a little confab with the Warriors owner. But now Scott was the big kahuna, and there was no one else he could drop it on.

What would Ozzy have done?
he thought as his fingers scratched at the rectangular artwork on the front of the Black Sabbath 1978 World Tour T-shirt he was wearing.
I mean the old Ozzy, not the embarrassingly burned-out, caricature-of-himself TV Ozzy. Actually, come to think of it, the old Ozzy would probably have dropped another tab of acid, then called his manager to take care of the problem.

Oh, just make the call! How bad could it be?
Resolved, Scott picked up the phone and dialed. He had a brief moment of regret after touching the last number, but the first ring sealed the deal—he was in the whole way.

A pleasant-voiced woman named Madeline told him that Mr. Bellefeuille was expecting his call and asked him very kindly if he would please hold.
See, it's already better than—

“Ross, you overinflated rent-a-cop, what have you done with my player?”

“Uh . . . good afternoon, Mr.—”

“You can stuff your good-afternoon! What have you done with Riley Covington, you second-rate G-man wannabe?”

“What do you mean? Haven't you listened to the news?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You and I both know that the news stories are a load of crap! You know, I'd been wondering what your endgame was in this whole trade thing you forced on me. Now I know! Well, let me inform you of something, Mr. Ross: I'm not playing your game! You can take your little agenda, roll it up, and sit and spin, because I've got an agenda of my own!”

Scott could feel his face starting to burn, and sweat had begun trickling down his neck. “Mr. Bellefeuille, I don't think you understand—”

“Oh, believe me, I understand! I understand more than you think! So here's how it's going to be. You can have Riley during the week to do whatever it is you want to do with him. But starting the first regular season game, I better see Covington on the Warriors' sideline—and the more bandages and casts on him the better! And after the game, he's going to give the interviews that I choose for him to give. You following me?”

“But, sir, that's just not possible!”

“Oh, it's possible, all right! In fact, it's going to happen. And you know why? Because if he's not on that sideline, I'm blowing the lid off this whole thing. How do you think that'll play? The government's already taking over health insurance and the banks and the carmakers—now they're stepping into the business of professional sports. How do you think that'll help the president's reelection bid?”

“But, Mr. Bellefeuille, you forget about—”

“I forget about what—my son? To tell you the truth, some time in the slammer'd probably be the best thing for the kid. He could use a wake-up call to the real world with the way his mother spoiled him.”

“But, sir, if it wasn't for your son, why—”

“Why'd I do it? Are you really that stupid? Riley Covington is the biggest PR commodity this country has seen since space flight. He's going to make this team millions—tens of millions. So what's it going to be, Ross? Yes or no? Am I going to see Covington at the season opener?”

“But, Mr. Bellefeuille, it's not that easy—”

“Sure it's that easy. You either say yes, and you can carry on your little shoot-'em-up games Monday through Saturday, or you say no, and I make a call to my buddy at the
New York Times
. So which is it? Yes or no?”

Trapped, Scott had no choice but to quietly say, “Yes.”

“Good,” Bellefeuille said, then hung up.

Scott sat there in a daze, clenching the phone.
What just happened? Did I really just agree to have Riley attend all the Warriors' games? Am I really that much of a—

Stop! Whatever you were going to say, the answer is yes. In fact, whatever it was, you're probably the telethon poster boy for said quality, you idiot!

As he slowly returned the phone to his desk, a worse thought came to him.
Who's going to tell Riley? Aw, man, where is Jim when you need him?

After taking a deep breath, Scott willed himself to stand. With one more curse at Jim Hicks for dying on him, he headed out to find Riley, fully prepared for an already-terrible day to get a whole lot worse.

Tuesday, September 8, 2:15 a.m. GMT-1

Eastern Atlantic Ocean

The SH-60 Seahawk cruised low over the choppy seas. Forty minutes ago it had begun its hundred-mile journey from the deck of the Oliver Hazard Perry–class frigate
Kauffman
. Now, five miles ahead, the lights of a freighter grew bigger and brighter in the moonless night.

“Three minutes,” Riley heard in his headphones. He reached to his left, slapped Skeeter in the chest, and held up three fingers. Because there were more passengers than headphones, hand signals were the order of the day. Skeeter passed the message to the next person, and the message sped through the helicopter's crowded cargo hold.

Along with Riley's ten-person team, the Navy had insisted on sending two of their SEALs on the mission. The CTD team could hardly say no, since they were making use of a Navy ship and a Navy helicopter. Besides, the addition of two highly trained, highly lethal SEALs could only help the mission. Still, in order to fit twelve troops into a space designed to only hold eleven, the crew had been forced to leave their sonar operator behind so that one of the SEALs could take his seat.

Riley watched as the three-minute message circled around to Khadi, who was sitting across from him. A black fabric mask covered all but her eyes, but those eyes looked hardened and ready to go.

He had wrestled with having her along. She had an extremely strong ops history and was the best sniper on the team. But despite that solid résumé, Riley was hesitant to allow her to come. It wasn't until Scott and Skeeter had both teamed up on him and told him he was letting his heart get in the way of his head that he had given in.

Khadi looked up and saw him staring at her. She met his eyes for a moment and then looked down. Riley knew she was still a little angry with him.
She'll get over it. Her hurt feelings are the last thing I need to worry about right now.

“One minute! Harness up,” came the voice of the tactical operator, a young Navy man named Frank Wilson.

Riley, Khadi, Skeeter, and Scott all latched themselves to zip lines. Riley and Skeeter were designated Botox 1, while Scott and Khadi were Botox 2. The Botox moniker had been suggested by Scott after Riley had told them the story of the lady with the wandering hands.

The plan called for Botox 1 and 2 to drop to a wing that jutted out from the starboard side of the freighter's bridge. The rest of the teams would then be lowered down to the deck, taking care to avoid the ship's two massive cranes.

Tonight's operation was the culmination of a difficult and at times exhausting process. Once Evie had confirmed that the container from North Korea was aboard the MSC
Shirley
, a Panamanian-registered cargo ship, the next ten days had been a pure logistical nightmare. Scott had asked CTD head Stanley Porter to push everything through with the Navy and Secretary Weasel of Homeland Security. Meanwhile, Riley and the rest of the ops team had developed a mission plan, then drilled and redrilled.

The reason for the sneak attack had nothing to do with any fear of the captain or crew, although one could never fully anticipate the reaction of a seaman when his ship is being taken over. International law allowed weapons on container ships, but when these boats pulled into port, they had to follow the laws of that particular country—many of which didn't allow weapons of any kind. So even if the captain tonight was thoroughly hacked off, there probably wasn't much he could do about it.

Instead, the justification for stealth was the real possibility that the container in question could be rigged to blow if anyone got too close. The doors could be wired, or someone on board could have a detonation device. If it did blow, the worst-case scenario was that everyone could be killed immediately or end up receiving a fatal dose of radiation. Best case, they would lose evidence critical to tracking down the other containers.

That was why the frigate kept its distance, and that was why the chopper was flying low and dropping in hot.

“Thirty seconds,” Wilson said.

Riley put his fist up, and the four stood by the doors. Adrenaline surged through his body as he prayed silently for the safety of his team. He gave one last nod to Khadi on his right, then Skeeter on his left, and looked around to Scott, who gave a thumbs-up.

Nothing like jumping out of a perfectly good helicopter! I hope they remember to keep us clear of the communications equipment on the roof of the bridge! . . . Come on, this is the longest thirty seconds—

Behind him, Wilson threw the door open. Gilly Posada whirled his hand above his head, signaling them to jump. Without thinking, Riley launched himself away from the helicopter and immediately started falling. No matter how many times he'd done this, he always found his stomach in his throat.

He looked down to see the rapidly approaching bridge.
Looks like the pilot's got us right on target!
He landed hard at the end of his zip line and dropped to a squat, letting his knees absorb most of the jolt. He'd learned that lesson the hard way on a painful landing back at the Air Force Academy. Quickly he unlatched himself and saw that the others had done the same. He circled his hand toward Wilson, and the lines began the rapid ascent back into the helicopter.

A door to the left opened, and a surprised face stared out. Riley let his Magpul Masada assault rifle drop against his chest and lunged toward the door, arriving just as it was closing. He grabbed the wet metal handle and slowed the door just enough for Scott to get his boot into the opening.

“Auugghh!”
Scott cried out as the heavy metal door slammed against his foot.

Skeeter got his fingers into the opening and pulled, and both the door and Riley flew backward. When Riley caught his step, he saw Scott and Khadi going through the opening with Skeeter following behind. By the time he got himself inside, four crewmen were standing with their hands up. One man was down on his knees, holding his hands over his bloody face.

Scott remained by the door they had just entered, while Skeeter headed to the opposite side of the bridge to cover that entrance. Khadi stood ten feet inside the doorway with her weapon pointed at the crew.

“Who's in charge here?” Riley yelled.

“I am First Officer Marvin Jiménez,” one man said, stepping forward, “second-in-command of the MSC
Shirley
, a lawfully registered container vessel flying the Panamanian flag! What is the meaning of this invasion of my ship and assault upon my crew?”

“Where's your captain?” Riley demanded. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see through the windows of the bridge eight black shapes gliding through the air to the deck below.

“I refuse to answer any of your questions until you tell me—”

Immediately Riley was on the man. He took hold of him by the front of the shirt, causing the stench of the man's sweat-stained uniform to launch into the air.

Leaning forward until they were almost nose to nose, Riley again demanded, “Your captain—where is he?”

Suddenly the door nearest Skeeter flew open, and a man wearing shorts and a T-shirt came running in. Skeeter's hand flew out and caught the man by the neck, stopping him in his tracks.

“Captain,” Jiménez called out, trying to break free of Riley's grasp.

Riley recognized Captain Tony Blanco from his mission file. He pushed the ship's second-in-command backward so that he fell in a chair in front of the control board.

Walking across the rough metal floor, Riley said, “Skeeter, let him go!”

Skeeter removed his hand, and the captain doubled over, coughing.

Riley took Blanco by his thick salt-and-pepper hair and lifted him straight. Pushing the barrel of his rifle against the underside of the captain's chin, he commanded, “Tell me where the container is!”

“What container? This ship is full of containers,” the captain pleaded.

“Don't feed me that! You know what I'm talking about! Where is the container you picked up in Bushehr with the special instructions?”

“Please, sir! I don't know what you're talking about! We picked up many containers! There was nothing out of the ordinary! Please!”

Riley saw the terror in the man's eyes and knew he was telling the truth.
This just made our mission way harder! Don't let up on the pressure, though. Right now, he's ready to do whatever he can to keep himself alive.

“Did you pick up any new crew in Bushehr?”

“Three . . . no, four,” Captain Blanco said. Looking down at Riley's assault rifle, he pleaded, “Please, put the gun down so that we can talk like civilized men.”

“Trust me, you haven't seen uncivilized yet,” Riley said, pushing the barrel harder into the man's flesh. “Give me their names.”

“Omidi, Zamaani . . . Marvin, help me!”

“Hemmati and Seddigh,” the second-in-command called out angrily.

Riley toggled his comm. “Botox team, look for crewmen Omidi, Zamaani, Hemmati, and . . .”

“Seddigh,” Blanco said.

“And Seddigh. When you find them, cuff them immediately and isolate them.”

Riley pulled a piece of paper out of a pocket in his vest and held it in front of Blanco's face. “I need to know where this container is! You do this, and no one will get hurt! Do you understand?”

Each container had a number, and Riley knew that somewhere on the bridge was a manifest that would tell them exactly where their prize sat.

“Yes, sir,” the frightened man said, rapidly shaking his head as he examined the number on the paper.

“Good. Now I'm going to let you go, Tony,” Riley said, purposely not using the man's title. “If you give me any trouble, I will kill you and your whole crew. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Blanco replied. Then, turning to one of his men, who had stood immobile under Khadi's watch through the whole exchange, he held out the piece of paper. “Agüero, find this.”

Agüero looked at Khadi, who motioned with her gun for him to take the piece of paper. He hurried over, retrieved the number, and slipped behind a computer.

Now that the situation on the bridge was under control, Riley turned to look out the bay of windows. Down below he could see two shadows moving toward the front of the ship. That would be the SEALs.
Hopefully the rest of the guys have the engine room and the remainder of the tower under control.

Although there were only twenty crewmen on board, it was difficult to know exactly where everyone was on the massive ship. At this hour, the majority of the men should be in the sleeping quarters, but there still would be a skeleton detail spread throughout the freighter. The job of the rest of Botox team was to round up all twenty as quickly as possible.

The sound of automatic weapons fire echoed from below. Riley looked down, trying to see through the darkness.

“This is Botox 1; what's happening?”

“We got a runner!” Riley recognized Hummel's voice.

Turning around, he said, “Captain Blanco, hurry your man up, and get me that information!”

“Yes, sir. Agüero, what is taking you so long?” the captain said as he leaned over his crewman's shoulder.

Riley looked back outside in time to see a man running toward the side of the ship. He had a thick black brick up to the side of his head.
A satellite phone!

“Botox 4, there's a guy on deck with a sat phone,” Riley called into his comm system.

“We're on him,” Hummel and Logan replied in unison.

Sure enough, two men came sprinting out onto the deck but were immediately spotted by the runner.

“No,” Riley yelled as the man threw the phone overboard.

The bad guy dropped to the ground just as Logan and Hummel began firing. Riley watched as he scrambled between the forty-foot containers just below the bridge.

“He's heading toward port, down the first row of containers,” Riley said into his comm. “Now he's turned forward!”

Riley watched helplessly as his team members gained on the runner, only to see the man pull a small box out of his pocket, turn a key, and rising up to his full height with his arms outstretched, push a button.