Blackout (20 page)

Tuesday, September 8, 2:23 a.m. GMT-1

Eastern Atlantic Ocean

“Drop!” Riley yelled just as the windows blew in. Glass showered down, and Riley heard one of the crewmen cry out in pain. A fraction of a second later, a deafening sound blasted through the room.

“Khadi,” Riley called out.

Frantically, his eyes searched the room until he saw her getting to her knees. Riley was about to run over to her when a weight flattened him back down to the floor. Hands reached around him, grasping for his Magpul.

I don't have time for this!

Riley managed to push himself to his knees. A fist rained down punches on the side of his head. With one hand Riley was holding his weapon, and with the other he reached around toward his assailant's head. He twisted his head to protect it from another blow and saw a crewman on his knees in front of Khadi, holding his midsection. Two others stood a few feet back from Skeeter, and one of them held a knife. Scott had the last crewman's head under his arm and was landing blow after blow on his face. The one person he didn't see was the captain, so he figured that's who was riding his back.

Riley finally managed to wrap his fingers around the captain's neck. He clamped down, then pulled as hard as he could, all the while rolling his body forward. The captain flipped over Riley's right shoulder, and Riley let the man's weight flip him over also. He landed hard with his shoulders on the captain's head. After a quick roll, Riley pressed his forearm onto the captain's throat. The man grasped at Riley's arm, desperately trying to get air into his windpipe. Within seconds, the captain's movements began to slow until he passed out.

Riley leaped up to run to Khadi's aid but instead saw her already standing, a motionless crew member at her feet with blood on his face. As Riley looked around, he saw Scott driving his gun butt into his adversary's stomach. Skeeter was already moving out the door he had been guarding, leaving two more unconscious men in his wake, the knife kicked to the side.

Turning around, Riley looked out the now-glassless windows. Fire raged at the front of the boat. A huge chunk of the starboard bow of the ship had been ripped out, and the hole extended below the waterline. Riley didn't know a lot about ships, particularly cargo vessels, but he knew that didn't look good.

“Report in,” Riley said to his team.

“Botox 3, clear.”

“Botox 4, down but clear.”

“Botox 5, clear.”

They all waited for the sixth team—the SEAL team—to respond.

“Botox 6, report in,” Riley said. “Botox 6!”

Finally, a weak voice said, “Six down. Can't . . .”

Riley grimaced; Botox 6 had been assigned to lock up the front of the vessel, right where the blast went off. “Five, get up there and find those guys.”

“Roger,” Kasay said.

“Three, get as close to the fire as you can and check levels,” Riley commanded Li and Posada, who were carrying one of the team's two Geiger counters.

“On it,” Li said.

“The rest of you, get the crew moving! We're going to have to abandon this ship, and I don't want us anywhere near it when it goes under. Send some of them up here, enough to get the captain and four others. Then follow their lead. They'll know how to get us off this thing better than we do.”

Then, remembering Logan's report, he asked, “Four, what's your status? How bad are you hit?”

Riley was relieved to hear Logan say, “Hummel's taken a good wallop, but he'll be fine. What doesn't kill him only makes him more obnoxious.”

“Get him back to the aft lifeboats; then see what you can do to keep the herd moving.”

“You got it!”

Riley turned around to see only Scott standing behind him.

“Where's Khadi?”

“She followed Skeet down to see if she could help any of the wounded.”

What's that crazy woman trying to prove? I knew I shouldn't have brought her along!

Then he mentally slapped himself upside the head.
She's only doing what she's supposed to be doing. You didn't mind Skeeter running off, did you? Get with the program!

“Scott, get the
Kauffman
on the horn and let them know our situation.”

“Already done. They're steaming our way; ETA is about two and a half hours. In the meantime, they're turning the Seahawk around to pick up any wounded.”

“Good work, Scott,” Riley said. “Let's get ourselves downstairs and see what we can do.”

As Riley took the last of the five flights of steps, he found himself off-balance and fell hard against the side of the tower. After steadying himself against the railing, he looked out toward the black water and could see that the boat had already begun listing heavily starboard.

The deck was a flurry of activity as several crewmen hustled to make sure everyone was accounted for, while others readied the lifeboats. Riley was pleased to see a number of his men taking orders from the ship's personnel.

Excellent! This is definitely not a time for pride or attitude.

“Botox 1, I found the SEALs,” Kasay's voice said in Riley's ear. “Schab's bad, but he'll live. Rasenjunge's dead.”

“Get them both to the aft boats as quick as you can!”

“Roger.”

Another man gone under my command. You're like a walking death sentence!

“I know what you're thinking,” Scott said from next to him. “It's not—”

“If you tell me that it's not my fault, Scott, I swear I'll deck you right here.”

The two men stared at each other as men ran all around them.

Finally Scott said, “Let it go, man. Let it go and lead.” Then he turned and walked away.

Scott's right. You've got a whole team here that you need to watch out for. Beat yourself up later.

Li's voice broke into Riley's thoughts. “Radiation levels are negative, One. Repeat, levels are negative.”

“Got it,” Riley answered. “Get yourselves back to the boats.”

Smoke was billowing from the forward hold, and Riley heard an ominous creaking from the bowels of the ship. The listing was getting more and more pronounced, and Riley felt the uphill angle in his calves when he walked toward port.

“Come on! Move it; move it,” he yelled to anyone he passed.

The insanity on board continued until the last person was safely on the boats. Everyone accounted for, Riley finally stepped into a lifeboat and closed its door behind him.

He quickly secured himself and gave a nod to a member of the crew. The crewman released a lever, and the freefall lifeboat plunged down to the water. The impact jarred them all, except the experienced crewmen, one of whom proceeded to start up the diesel engine and race the lifeboat away from the sinking ship.

Out his window, Riley was gratified to see two other boats bouncing across the waves. Turning around, he looked at the faces of those inside his own craft. There were two members of the ship's crew, plus Captain Blanco, who was only now regaining his wits. Scott and Khadi flanked Riley, while Skeeter sat next to the captain. Toward the front of the boat were the wounded SEAL and Carlos Guitiérrez, who was busy working on him.

Beyond them, in the absolute fore of the boat, lay the lifeless body of the other SEAL. Skeeter had covered the man with a Mylar rescue blanket, but Riley could still see his outline very clearly. Riley closed his eyes. Rasenjunge's face floated behind his eyelids. Quickly he opened them and locked them on the dead man.

I didn't even know him. Did he have a wife? Does he have any kids? Where's he from? I know nothing about him, except that he was just a piece in my plan—a pawn for me to move around.

“I didn't even know Rasenjunge's first name,” Riley said aloud.

“Wes,” Khadi said softly. “His name was Wes.”

Riley turned to Khadi, who had a soft, sympathetic smile on her face. He nodded, then lowered his head in his hands.

The mission had been a qualified success. On the positive side, they had destroyed one of the containers.

The negative list was much longer. First, they had strong suspicions that there were still three more containers out there somewhere, but they had gained absolutely no information about where they might be.

Second, the lack of any radiation told them that whatever had been blown back there, it was probably not one of the two primary targets.

Third, the loss of the satellite phone and the container itself meant they had come away with scant evidence of the overall plot.

And finally, he had lost a member of his team.
Another death to add to your tally. Another one to put on your shoulders. How many more can you handle before you break under the weight?

As he sat there hunched over, Riley felt Khadi's hand on his back. He appreciated her sympathy, but her touch only made him think about what Wes Rasenjunge's wife or mom or kids would be feeling tonight. It also made him wonder just how long it would be until it was Khadi's lifeless body he was looking down on.

Tuesday, September 8, 9:15 a.m. IRDT

Tehran, Iran

“So, we see that there are two jihads spoken of in the Koran,” Ayatollah Beheshti told his students. “There is the Greater Jihad and the Lesser Jihad. Rahim, tell me the difference between the two.”

Rahim stood next to his chair. “The Greater Jihad is the struggle of the believers against the wrong beliefs, evil, and desires that fill their hearts. The Lesser Jihad is the struggle of Islam against the infidel.”

“Very good,” Beheshti said as Rahim returned to his seat. “Another way to say it is that the Greater Jihad is internal, while the Lesser Jihad is external. The question I have for you is whether, in a sense, these names are reversed. In other words, should the internal jihad be lesser, and the external be greater? Namvar, give us your thoughts.”

Namvar looked down as he pushed his chair back, but Beheshti could see the smirk on his face. “
Sayyid
, I think they should stay the same. These are the names given to the two struggles for centuries. It would be arrogant and presumptuous for
anyone
to put himself above our forefathers.”

Beheshti threw the erasable marker that he had been holding, hitting Namvar just above the eye. “Impudent child! Go sit in the hall until I call for you! This is an academic exercise, and I will not have you challenging my integrity in such a way!”

For good measure, he threw an eraser at the boy as he was hustling out the door, missing to the right and leaving it lying on the floor. All the other students looked stunned. The ayatollah was well-known for his verbal outbursts, but very rarely did they turn physical in any way.

Beheshti scanned his students as he sought to regain his composure. He could tell they were all praying he would not choose them.

“Now, Yahya, please try to give an intelligent answer to my question.”

Hesitantly, the young man answered, “The Greater Jihad is well named because it is an epic battle in the heart of all men. It is the lifelong struggle to draw closer to Allah.”

Beheshti stroked his beard. “Very true. There is an internal battle within every soul. And it is very important. But is it the most important? Youness, tell us what Surah 4:95 says.”

Youness slowly rose to his feet. Beheshti could practically see the wheels turning in his student's brain. Then a smile appeared on the boy's face, and he said, “‘Not equal are those who sit at home and receive no hurt, and those who strive and fight in the name of Allah with their wealth and their selves. Allah has favored those who strive and fight with their wealth and their selves above those who sit at home . . . um . . . To both hath Allah promised good; but to those who strive and fight hath he favored with a great reward above those who sit at home.'”

Proudly, Youness started to return to his seat, but Beheshti stopped him. “So, my young student, according to our present definitions, which group is fighting the Lesser Jihad?”

“The ones who are striving and fighting?”

“Very good; and which ones are fighting the Greater Jihad?”

“The ones who are sitting at home.”

Beheshti nodded as he walked to the whiteboard and picked up another marker. Everyone in the room tensed. “You may sit down, Youness. Now, Yahya, would you please stand again? Which group does the Prophet, peace be upon him, say that Allah favors with special reward?”

“Those fighting the Lesser Jihad.”

“So I ask you again, are the names reversed? But don't answer me now.” Turning to write an assignment on the whiteboard, he said, “I want all of you to spend the next hour writing your thoughts on the subject. I expect your answers to be well thought out and to have scriptural backing.”

Normally there would have been a collective groan at this type of written assignment. However, the memory of Namvar's recent departure kept the room silent except for the rustling of notebooks and the clicking of pens.

The ayatollah rounded his desk and was about to sit when his assistant, Bahman Milani, entered the room. Hustling to where Beheshti stood, he leaned in and whispered, “Saberi is in your office.”

“In my office? Now?” Nouri Saberi was the leader of the team Beheshti had put together for the project. For him to show up in the middle of the morning could mean only one thing—trouble.

“Class, I must leave you for a moment. I expect you to continue quietly with your assignment until I return.” Then, turning to Milani, he said softly, “Call Namvar's parents and tell them that I am fed up with his attitude, and unless they can come up with a
sizable
reason why I should keep him at the madrassa, he is finished at my school.”

“Yes,
sayyid
,” Milani said, following Beheshti out the door but halting to confront the humbled young man.

All sorts of scenarios ran through the ayatollah's mind as he hurried down the halls.
Did the shipments not make it? Have the packages been compromised? Please, don't let it be serious! We don't have the resources to start over!

His heart sank when he entered his office and saw the man waiting for him. Saberi looked pale and very nervous. As soon as he saw Beheshti, he leaped to his feet.

“
Sayyid
, I don't—”

Beheshti silenced him with a wave of his hand. He closed the door, then sat behind his desk.

“Get control of yourself, Nouri; then tell me what has happened,” Beheshti said in the calmest voice he could muster.

“Yes,
sayyid
; I'm sorry. As you know, we have four containers on four ships, all currently nearing the American coastline. We have placed a man among the crew on each vessel. A little over an hour ago, I received a satellite call from one of our men. His ship had been boarded by what he believed to be American forces. I instructed him to destroy the container. Then I heard gunfire, and the line went dead.”

The ayatollah slammed his hand on his desk. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then asked, “Was the container destroyed?”

“I don't know for sure,
sayyid
, but we did receive a report that distress signals were being sent out from a cargo ship that was sinking in the eastern Atlantic.”

“Which container was it?” Beheshti asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“It was one of the delivery systems. It was not one of the warheads.”

Beheshti exhaled a huge sigh of relief. Then another frightening question struck him. “How did they know, Saberi? If it was the Americans, how could they possibly have known? This was no routine search and seizure, particularly if the ship was in international waters!”

Saberi, whose face had started to return to normal color when he saw Beheshti's relief, immediately went white again. “
Sayyid
, I . . . I have no idea. I'm certain it didn't come from us . . . or as certain as I can be.”

The ayatollah knew Saberi's team. All good men. All true believers. But the leak had to come from somewhere.
If we don't find it and plug it, all our future efforts could be in vain.

In the meantime, though, keep moving forward. If you stop the momentum, you may never gain it again. And if you give your team too much time to think, fear will creep in.

“Get word to your men on the ships. Tell them to increase their vigilance. They must be ready at a moment's notice to destroy any evidence of our plans.

“Then get back to our connections at Hezbollah. Tell them to contact North Korea immediately. I want them to know I hold them personally responsible for what has happened. Order another rocket. Make sure they know we want it expedited so that it will meet the other shipments. You figure out the logistics of getting it to its destination; then have Hezbollah dictate them to the Koreans. Tell them that if they receive any pressure from the DPRK, they should threaten to go public with their selling of weapons specifically designed to harm America. If they still refuse, we can use our contacts to acquire a Shahab-2 missile from our own military. These are the same as the Hwasong Scuds—we just renamed them after North Korea sold them to us. So the warhead will be transferable. But that is only a last resort!

“Also, I want the Koreans to know they have a leak. They must be reminded that if word gets out and our effort fails, they will be rebuked by the world and quite possibly destroyed by America. However, if this plan succeeds and America is taken down, they will be hailed by all nations as true and courageous heroes.”