Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (12 page)

Chapter Sixteen

House of Islamic Knowledge
Dearborn, Michigan
29 June

Borqei stared at the message, sighed, and dialed the phone. He had a conversation in Farsi, including code words. An hour later, Yousif’s adoptive mother went to her doctor, who admitted her to his private clinic and called her clergyman, Borqei, of course. Borqei informed the navy that Ensign Hamad’s mother was gravely ill, along with the doctor’s number for verification. In hours, Hamad was on a plane from San Diego, with connections in Los Angeles.

***

In a toilet stall in LAX, a man slipped Yousif an envelope under the divider. He opened it to find a ticket to Jakarta, a forged passport, and a wallet holding cash, a driver’s license, and credit cards. The hand reappeared under the divider, and Yousif passed over his own boarding pass and ID. His seat on the plane to Detroit would be occupied by a man looking very much like him. It wouldn’t do for the airline to record him as a no show.

An hour later, Yousif sat in the international terminal, in civilian clothes with boarding pass in hand, baffled at his trip to Indonesia but trusting Imam Borqei.

Coast North of Idi
Aceh Province, Indonesia
30 June

Sheibani stood with Richards, watching in the growing light as his men spread netting over the boats moored fifty meters away under overhanging limbs. A good staging point, he thought, where the Andaman Sea narrowed into the Malacca Strait. Sheibani felt secure in Aceh Province. Holy Jihad had strong support here, where Islam first arrived in Indonesia.

“Is the cover sufficient?”

Richards nodded. “Between the trees and net, they’ll be invisible to the satellites.”

“And you have everything you need?”

Richards grinned. “Enough C4 to blow ‘em and enough clay to fool your bomber boys.”

“Do not ridicule them,” Sheibani snapped. Deceiving brave men was regrettable. He hoped they would be welcomed in Paradise, and he would not allow them to be mocked by this infidel.

“I leave tomorrow to collect our American in Jakarta,” Sheibani said. “You must finish before we return tomorrow night.”

“What? Why? We got four days.”

“The others will not understand, but this man may. Finish and cover it.”

“Shit,” Richards said.

Sheibani left Richards to his work, and the next morning as he got into his SUV, the American had the material stacked next to the boats.

“Gonna be broilin’ under that camo net,” the American said.

“Just make sure you finish before I return.”

Sheibani left Richards cursing, as he drove off down the jungle track, the American soon forgotten. Success was only a matter of degree. Even if they failed to dupe China into believing the attack was an American ruse to justify seizing control of the strait, the attack alone was enough to raise oil prices and divert suspicion from Iran. Sheibani smiled and mulled his plans for “spontaneous” street demonstrations once American treachery was discovered.

Judicial Investigative Directory HQ
Panama City, Panama
1 July

The chair groaned as Lieutenant Manuel Reyes reached for a file.

“One day, Manny,” Sergeant Juan Perez said, “your fat ass is gonna hit the floor.”

“You’re just jealous, shrimp,” Reyes said, with some truth. At six four and powerfully built, Reyes towered over his diminutive partner. Perez stifled a reply as Captain Luna approached and handed Reyes a folder.

“What’s this?” Reyes asked.

“You boys are taking a little boat trip,” Luna said. “Fatality on a tanker.”

“Shit. Why us? Why not those SMN assholes?” Perez asked, referring to the Servicio Maritimo Nacional. “Wait. Let me guess. She arrives on a weekend.”

“You know the drill, Perez,” Luna said. “Suspected foul play comes here.”

“Foul play?” Perez asked, interested now.

“Looks like it,” Reyes said, looking up from the file. “You read this, Captain?”

Luna nodded. “No witness except the guy that reported the accident. Victim a skilled seaman in good health. Good weather. Yeah, it warrants a look.”

Reyes continued, “Says he fell on a valve stem that pierced his brain through the eye.”

“No way,” Perez said. “With his hands free? I can see a broken arm or jaw, or even losing an eye. But the thing couldn’t go into his brain unless he came straight down on it with force. Sounds like he had help.”

Reyes and Luna nodded.

“Any bad blood between the victim and the witness?” Perez asked.

“Nothing in the file,” Luna said. “Her agent will update you on the ETA. Keep me posted.” He grinned. “Perez has time to stock up on seasick pills.”

Reyes smiled. His partner’s aversion to anything that floated was a department joke. Perez got violently ill, even riding a launch in the smooth water of the harbor. Reyes decided to let him stew for a bit before volunteering to work the case solo. Served him right for that fat-ass remark.

“This’ll screw up the weekend for sure,” Perez muttered at Luna’s retreating back.

“I hope not,” Reyes said, nodding at a framed photo of his eight-year-old twins in soccer uniforms. “The boys have a game this weekend, and I don’t want to miss it.”

Offices of Phoenix Shipping
2 July

Braun smiled as he read. He was managing message traffic for both
Asian Trader
and
China Star
now, sending or modifying messages in Dugan’s name. The ruse wouldn’t work long, but the attacks were imminent.
Asian Trader
had increased speed per “Dugan’s” earlier orders, with a new ETA of 0100 hours on July 4, ready to start canal transit at first light. The ship would arrive a full twenty-four hours before anyone else in the office had a clue it had reached Panama.

He accessed the Panama Canal Authority webpage auctioning transit slots, signing in as Dugan. Bidding for the July 4 slot was heavy. He doubled the current bid and grinned as no challenger emerged. The slot secured, he pulled up an outgoing message he’d intercepted and held, asking the agent to arrange a hotel and airport pickup for Dugan. He added orders to advise the authorities that
Asian Trader
had transit priority and to request the inquiry be postponed until after transit. Braun hit send and leaned back, satisfied.

Dugan would arrive after the attack—in time to be detained. An investigation would reveal Dugan’s Cayman Island account, owned through a series of fronts, with recent transactions totaling a million dollars from sources with known terrorist links. The money had stayed in the account just minutes before Braun whisked it away, causing it to vanish through another series of skillful transfers. A frame was one thing, but a million dollars was not something he abandoned lightly.

Things were progressing, despite a few hiccups.
China Star
and
Asian Trader
were on schedule, and the Chechens were in position for the final act. He could hardly ask for more.

Paris, France
2 July

Basaev paced the room. He was impatient, as they all were. They’d been in the seedy transient hotel a week, keeping to themselves as they studied their course notes and identity documents, preparing to board the ship as a riding repair crew. Their weapons waited in the load port, concealed among the tools to be loaded aboard for the “riding crew” to use during the voyage. They would take the first flight from Paris to the load port as soon as they received word the ship had moved to the loading berth. They would board the ship just before sailing, when they would receive less scrutiny.

Allah make it soon, prayed Basaev.

Chapter Seventeen

M/T China Star
Andaman Sea
East of Banda Aceh, Indonesia
3 July

Holt peered into the predawn gloom as
China Star
crept along at dead slow. He muttered and moved to the radar, his escort’s late arrival just the latest irritation. He still chafed at the peremptory e-mail from this Dugan, ordering him to board the “escort team leader” for a “pre-transit conference.” And his own company hadn’t backed his protest.

The VHF squawked. “
China Star
, this is MPS team leader. Do you copy, over?”

“I copy, MPS,” the captain said. “I have two targets to starboard. Is that you, over?”

“Affirmative,
China Star
. Five minutes out. Are you rigged for boarding, over?”

“Starboard side. I’ll light it up.” He walked over and threw a breaker, and floodlights bathed the boarding area and the adjacent sea in a circle of light.

“Thank you,
China Star
. I have a visual on the ladder. See you in five, out.”

“Bonifacio,” Holt barked. “Make yourself useful. Go meet our guest and escort him to the bridge.” Third Mate Bonifacio scurried out, cursing the curiosity that led him to hang around after he was relieved.

Holt heard the engines now, a growing roar that subsided as the boats cut speed, one paralleling the ship as the second moved crab-like into the light to the pilot ladder. I’ll be damned, he thought, looking at the flag. US Navy. Then he cursed as not one but six black-clad figures scrambled aboard. He waited until an agitated Bonifacio arrived with visitors in tow.

Holt looked at the group. “You seemed to have lost a few, Bonifacio.”

“Captain, I told them—”

“Not his fault, Captain. We deployed,” said the leader of the group, an American.

Before Holt could respond, the man extended his hand.

“I’m Bo Richards, MPS.” He nodded at a second man. “This is Ensign Hamad, US Navy.”

Holt shook their hands, glancing at a third man who hung back, gripping his weapon.

“By helping private firms,” Richards said, “the US can protect the strait without upsetting local governments.”

“Riding around under the Stars and Stripes isn’t low profile,” Holt said, not buying it. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked just as the phone rang.

The second mate held up the phone. “It’s the chief,” he said. Holt took the phone.

“Three GI Joe-lookin’ assholes are in my engine control room. What the hell’s goin’ on, Cap?” Anderson demanded.

“Hold one, Chief,” he said, looking at Richards. “The chief engineer’s none too pleased with your ‘deployment,’ nor am I. So just get back in your little boats and follow us.”

“Apologies, Captain,” Richards said. “We’ll do it any way you want. However, we do need a meeting with you and the chief before we leave.”

Holt hesitated. “Fine,” he said at last. He spoke into the phone. “Chief, can you come up to the D Deck conference room?” He nodded at the response and hung up.

“Mr. Ortega, you have the conn,” he said to the second mate. “Course is one two five. Steering is on hand.”

Holt listened to the man’s confirmation before turning to the third mate. “Mr. Bonifacio, get some rest, but first ask the steward to bring coffee to the conference room.”

Holt led the group down to the conference room, swallowing his irritation at the belated realization that the third man, the silent one, had remained on the bridge. Jon Anderson joined them in the conference room, fit to be tied. As before, Richards diverted the engineer with introductions as the smiling steward arrived with coffee. As the steward served, Anderson sank into a chair beside the captain as Richards closed the door.

Without warning, Richards slammed the steward down on the table and with one fluid movement pulled a silenced sidearm and fired twice into the man’s face. Holt and Anderson watched horrified as the steward’s blood and brains pooled on the table. They looked up to see Richards’s steady smile and dead, dead eyes.

“Now gentlemen,” Richards said, “let’s discuss our little cruise, shall we?”

M/T China Star
Malacca Strait
Due West of Port Klang, Malaysia
Local Time 4 July

Richards watched the bridge crew in the glow of console instrument lights. With a gun at their heads and the dead steward in front of them, the senior officers had been understandably cooperative. Most of the crew was now captive in the crew lounge. The gear had been brought aboard, and the gunboats ran dark, hugging the ship’s starboard side, their return masked by the huge ship’s own radar signature.

The captain was on the bridge, along with Second Mate Ortega, Third Mate Bonifacio and Urbano, the helmsman, all dead tired, allowed no rest in over twenty-four hours. Richards, Yousif, and Sheibani shared guard duty, two at a time with the third napping as needed. The three hijackers in the engine room followed the same two-watching-one-resting pattern, guarding Anderson and First Engineer Benjamin Santos. By design, only the seamen on watch knew the hijackers’ numbers, and ignorant of the odds, the others captive in the crew lounge would be less inclined toward heroics.

Not that it mattered. The thick lounge windows were all but unbreakable, and the handles of the lounge doors were lashed to the storm rail in the passageway, precluding worries of hidden keys. The steward’s body dumped in the lounge and a warning the doors were booby-trapped further discouraged resistance, enhanced by the cook’s report of grenade-festooned doors when he returned under guard with sandwiches, water, and buckets for “sanitary needs.”

***

Holt squinted at the radar through watery eyes, his stomach boiling from endless coffee.

“Southbound VLCC,” squawked the VHF, “this is Klang VTS. Report. Over.”

He felt the gun at the back of his head.

“OK, nice and businesslike,” Richards said.

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Local Time 3 July

“Jesse,” Mike Hill said, “two calls in two weeks. People will talk.”

Ward chuckled. “Whadda ya got, Mike?”

“You know that boat we been tracking?
China Star
?”

Ward sat up, interested. “Yeah.”

“Well, she picked up admirers. Two Malaysian boats as escorts.”

Christ, that was fast, thought Ward. “Malaysians? You sure?”

“Not positive,” Hill said, “but the two guys in each boat are Asian, and they’re flying red-white-and-blue flags. A stern wind is keeping the flags limp, but they’re red-and-white striped. That means US or Malaysia. I know it’s not us, so it must be them. The boats look a lot like our Dauntless 34s, but that’s a pretty common design.”

“Two guys per boat is a bit light. Our crews are bigger.”

“Lemme look again. Shit, there’s a ladder rigged. They’re on board. I should have caught that.”

“Actually, I’m relieved,” Ward said. “We passed a back-channel warning to the locals but got no response. Any other friendlies in the area if they need help?”

“There’s a CARAT exercise on to the south,” Hill said, using the acronym for the Cooperation Afloat Readiness and Training exercise. “A multinational cluster fuck. Us, Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia. I’d hate to lead that parade.”

Ward laughed. “Sounds like everything’s OK. Thanks for the update.”

“No sweat, pal,” Hill said and hung up.

***

For all his relief that his backdoor warning had paid off, Ward couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. He was in the supermarket two hours later, shopping for his Fourth of July cookout, when it hit him. He rushed through the checkout to his car and began punching numbers into his sat phone, praying his gut feeling was wrong.

M/T China Star
Malacca Strait
West of Port Dickson, Malaysia
Local Time 4 July

Sheibani moved through the chart-room curtains onto the darkened bridge.

“We’re close,” he whispered. “Best deal with the excess crew as they sleep.”

“It’ll make the others more difficult,” Richards protested.

“They will hear nothing in the engine room,” Sheibani said, “and we tell these their shipmates tried to escape, and a few were injured by booby traps, and the rest gave up after warning shots. It will calm them long enough. Soon we’ll be in Indonesian waters and no longer need them. Any fool can ground a ship.”

“OK. Will you do it?”

“Yes. I will take Yousif.”

“No,” Richards said. “That leaves me too thin here.”

“You do well to remember who is really in charge, Richards.”

The comment hung in the air until Richards broke the silence.

“All right,” he whispered, “but go quietly and hurry back.”

Sheibani smiled in the dark as he moved away. He’d included Yousif as an afterthought to salve his pangs of conscience. He would not let the young man die without dipping his sword in the blood of the infidel.

***

Sheibani peeked in a window. Men slept sprawled on sofas and armchairs or the deck. Three insomniacs played cards in the light of a lamp. He moved back and targeted the window, nodding for Yousif to take another. They opened fire, stitching holes around the edge of the thick glass before directing fire into the center, sending a maelstrom of shards inward, followed by grenades as they ducked low. Sheibani rushed to the window after the explosions, unmoved by the carnage, firing at anything that twitched. He looked over at Yousif bent over a puddle of vomit.

“Control yourself and rejoice in the blood of infidels. Come, a few still squirm. We will toss in two grenades each and finish it.”

Yousif shook his head, mute.

“Beard of the Prophet, you are a woman. I will finish alone. Go.”

Yousif stumbled up the stairs to the bridge as explosions sounded behind him. Sheibani arrived on the bridge moments later to find Yousif trembling in the dark, wiping vomit from his chin. Sheibani’s foul mood was tempered by the ease with which his captives accepted his tale of attempted escape. If they noticed the patterns of shots and explosions didn’t match the story, it hadn’t registered. A comforting lie was more palatable than a terrifying truth.

***

Sheibani erred in thinking his act went unnoticed below. Engineers are attuned to sound and vibration, for unexpected noises invariably herald problems. In the control room, Anderson and Santos felt the shocks through their feet, though their guards were oblivious.

Anderson paced in front of the control console. Unlike Holt, preoccupied with conning the ship, his automated engine room allowed him time to think. With Americans among them, he figured the hijackers nonsuicidal. He was partially right; Yousif and the men in the boats were eager martyrs, while Richards and Sheibani planned escape. The three guards in the engine room were also unenthusiastic martyrs, Burmese mercenaries hired by Richards.

No one seemed intent on destruction; they had neither stopped the inert-gas system nor ventilated the cargo tanks into the explosive range. They were either intentionally leaving the ship in a safe condition or were inept. They didn’t seem inept.

Anderson didn’t figure he and Santos were there by accident. Their captors anticipated a possible need for a senior engineer, and while they might kill one to coerce the other, if either escaped, the other likely wouldn’t be killed. But he sensed they were nearing some climax, perhaps connected to the shocks he’d felt. Time was getting short.

He watched the guards out of the corner of his eye. The engineers were accustomed to long periods in the windowless control room and at least had the distraction of monitoring the main engine and engineering plant. Their guards had no mental stimulation whatsoever, and being confined in a box had taken its toll. They were noticeably less alert than they had been when the ordeal started over twenty-four hours before. Anderson took a chance.

***

Santos watched as Anderson turned toward him and repeatedly arched his eyebrows to get his attention. He stared silently as Anderson looked at the CO2 alarm on the bulkhead then pointed at him with a finger shielded by his body. Santos grew more puzzled as Anderson then looked pointedly toward a rack of emergency-escape masks used for tank entry and discreetly pointed to himself. The chief obviously had a plan, but what? He was still trying to piece it together when Anderson turned to the senior of the three guards.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “We’re not going to escape aft, so how about bringing down more sandwiches before I find another way out of here?”

The hijacker looked confused. “You no talk.”

“Santos can go with one of your guys,” Anderson pressed. “They can leave and shut that door tight.” He pointed to the door leading to the deckhouse stairs.

“No. No eat. Shut up now.”

Suddenly, Santos understood, but the hijacker wasn’t cooperating. Anderson turned back to the console, disappointment on his face, but Santos was elated. He caught Anderson’s eye and nodded. He’d plotted his own escape for hours. The only thing stopping him had been his fear of retaliation against Anderson. Now it seemed the chief had a plan of his own.

***

“Toilet.” Santos hugged his stomach and moved toward the door.

The nearest hijacker leveled his weapon. “You stop.”

Santos moaned. “Must go toilet.”

The man spoke and the others laughed, obviously at Santos’s expense. The head man nodded, and the underling escorted Santos out the door to the engine-room toilet and the deckhouse stairs beyond. As the control-room door shut behind them, Santos hurried across the narrow vestibule to the toilet. He tried to close the toilet door, but as expected, his captor shook his head, so Santos shrugged down his coveralls and sat, glaring out at the man. Minutes later, he pulled up his coveralls and moved to the small sink, his back to the hijacker. He turned on the water and extracted a fistful of powdered hand soap from a container on the sink, his actions hidden by his body. He murmured a prayer and turned off the water.