Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (16 page)

“Do you have your cell?” she asked Juanita.

Juanita shook her head. “I left my purse in the excitement.”

Maria nodded as the roar and heat increased.

“Oh Maria, what can we do?” Juanita asked.

“It’s in God’s hands, Juanita,” Maria said. “We should pray.”

Juanita nodded, unable to speak, as Maria turned to the children.

“Children, we will talk to God. Please hold hands and help each other be brave.”

They joined hands as she prayed. “
Padre nuestro que estas en el cielo, santificado…”

CNN Center
Atlanta, Georgia

The blast enlivened a slow news day in the US with newsrooms on holiday staffing. In moments, a CNN staffer discovered the Internet camera feed from the Canal Authority, with real-time photos of ships in transit. Five minutes later, he dreamed of a bonus as he e-mailed photos of the final feed of the Centennial Bridge camera: one of a man on the bridge of the M/T
Asian Trader,
mouth open in a shout, a gun in one hand and a remote in the other; the second showed the explosion. The photos were aired in two minutes flat, and within five, all the networks had them. Talking heads speculated, and executives screamed at people to get some goddamned facts or to make them up if necessary.

Pedro Miguel Lock
Panama

Breach of an upper lock was an event long feared, for the canal’s designers had respect for the forces of God and nature, an outlook validated just months before the canal’s opening when the “unsinkable” Titanic plunged to the bottom. But fears faded with decades of safe operation until they seemed as quaint as high button shoes. Gone were safety chains to restrain runaway ships, removed in 1980 in admission that ships were now so big as to make them useless. Eliminated earlier were the emergency dams meant to seal a breach; removed in the fifties after years of disuse. Only the double gates had survived, now blasted to scrap; for what design could anticipate the deluded fanaticism of
Jihad
?

***

The chopper hovered above Pedro Miguel as Juan Antonio Rojas, administrator of the Autoridad del Canal de Panama, watched gasoline drain from wrecked tanks, not a gush now but gurgling belches as air bubbled up to break vacuums. Each burp flared, but the gas burned near the source now, with only scattered islands of flame floating southward.

“It’s burning out,” he said into his mike.

“I pray you’re right,” said Pedro Calderon, ACP operations manager, from the seat behind Rojas.

“How fast are we losing the lake?” Rojas asked.

“Hard to say,” Calderon said. “I’ll know more after the next depth reading, but the lake was already low. If that plug fails…” He pointed at the wreckage partially blocking the lock.

As if in response, gasoline gushed anew from the ruined tanks, sending up a fireball and disturbing a precarious balance. For the ruptured tanks had not disgorged their contents evenly, and most of the gasoline remaining in the mangled mass was trapped in the lower, unsupported end. As the last of the cargo drained from the higher end, the cargo block pivoted on the central lock wall like a huge seesaw, the lighter end rising from
Stellar Spirit
as the lower end dipped toward the waters of the lock. The upper end of the cargo block was inches off the cruise ship when the fire-weakened steel buckled in the middle, dropping the higher end back down across
Stellar Spirit
as the lower end plunged into the lock. Water rose behind the new obstacle, forcing it down the lock and tearing it free of the remaining wreckage ashore. At the moment of separation, the portion of the cargo block in the lock shifted, filling the lock wall to wall as it slammed into the face of the ruined deckhouse.

***

The men in the chopper watched helplessly as the cargo section hit the deckhouse and shifted it several feet, then in grateful amazement as the water compacted the mass. Water gushed through in a dozen places and ran over the top inches deep on either side of the deckhouse, but the debris was damming the flood more effectively than before.

“
Gracias a Dios
,” Rojas whispered. “It holds.”

“Y Jesus y Jose y Maria
,” Calderon added as he crossed himself.

“Move over Miraflores,” Rojas ordered the pilot, and in moments they were there.

Water swirled over the locks and down the slope a foot deep, carrying pools of burning gasoline, the flames dancing over the new rapids and around overturned mules on the lock walls as if they were rocks in a river roaring out of Hell. The operations building and visitors center smoldered, and a blackened container ship bobbed in a lock, surging against the gates astern in great hollow booms. But even as they watched, the flow ebbed and soon barely overtopped the complex.

“Get men here by chopper,” Rojas ordered. “If we crack open the lock valves, we can drain off the water upstream from below the surface and contain floating gasoline north of Miraflores.”

As Calderon spoke into his radio, Rojas looked southward. Gasoline burned in places, and nearby was a burning hulk, her bow hard aground, the first ship to meet the flames south of Miraflores. Faced with certain death, the pilot had warned those behind and bought them time by swinging his ship across the canal like a gate, slowing the flames and preventing his ship from drifting down on Balboa like a flaming battering ram.

Nor was that pilot the only hero, Rojas thought, squinting downstream where the busy docks were unharmed. After the pilots had turned their ships, they released their tugs to speed seaward under ships’ power. The masters of the freed tugs had taken initiative, nosing into the bank at strategic points and using their propeller wash to divert the fire from the docks at Balboa, La Boca, and Rodman across the harbor.

“A crew is on the way,
jefe,
” Calderon said. “I should return to the operations center.”

“One stop more,” Rojas said. “Gatun Locks,” he said to the pilot.

“So, old friend,” Rojas said as they flew north, “how long will the miracle hold?”

Calderon shrugged. “An hour… or a year. It’s in God’s hands.”

Rojas nodded and fell silent until they hovered over Gatun Locks.

“I ordered everything out of the lake,” Calderon said. “Seven client vessels came up from Cristobal before the attack. We will send them back down to Cristobal, along with the one northbound vessel that reached the lake. Eight ships total.”

“Priorities?”

“Two tankers and three container ships all laden and with no way to reduce their drafts will go first. Then two passenger ships, with a tanker in ballast last. We’ll get the deep-loaded vessels over the sill of the upper lock while we still have water. We’ll lighten the others in the lake if necessary.”

“The ballasted tanker is the new American ship?”

“
Si
. Her maiden voyage.”

“Is that her?” Rojas pointed.

“
Si
,” Calderon said, and Rojas motioned the pilot to circle the anchorage.

“So, Pedro. Who, do you think, was
El Señor Luther Hurd
?”

“No idea,
jefe
,” Calderon said.

“Nor do I,” Rojas said, “but perhaps we can make him famous. Leave the
yanqui
in the lake. I have an idea.”

Chapter Twenty-One

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

The photos on Ward’s monitor seemed as unreal now as when they’d flashed on TV, prompting his return to work. Gardner had called to vent outrage Ward hadn’t notified him immediately, hanging up as soon as he learned what little Ward knew. Ward knew little more now, hours later. The focus now was on Panama, but the spotlight would swing his way soon enough; and the spotlight was a bad place for a spook with no answers. He lifted the phone.

“Carlucci.”

“Frank, Jesse Ward.”

“Well,” said Frank Carlucci, Panama Station Chief, “one of three people at HQ who hasn’t called, besides the janitor and the snack-bar lady. How may I disappoint you?”

“That bad, huh?”

Carlucci sighed. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Yeah, I do. Can you update me?”

“Jesus H. Christ. Didn’t that pompous asshole you work for fill you in? I spent twenty minutes answering his dumb-ass questions. Don’t you people talk?”

“Gardner? When?”

“Over two hours ago,” Carlucci said.

Ward stopped, embarrassed.

“Ah… I’m sorry, Frank. Could you…”

Carlucci relented. “OK, Jesse. The short version: Five ships toast, one a cruise ship, everyone dead. All three Pacific locks out of commission, with all ACP personnel dead. A hundred visitors at a visitors center, including a school group, all presumed dead. A bunch of American expats missing from a barbecue at Pedro Miguel Boat Club. Hospitals swamped with related casualties. The death toll is a guess. Pedro Miguel lock is breached but partially plugged by debris, and they’re losing the lake. A total disaster.”

“Shit,” Ward said. “OK. I’m on the way. Keep Dugan with you when he arrives.”

“Who?”

Christ. Gardner didn’t tell him. Ward summarized the operation.

Carlucci exploded. “You knew about this and didn’t warn us!”

“No, we didn’t know. Look, Frank, it’s a long story. I’ll explain when I arrive.”

“I hope you know what you’re doin’ here, Jesse.”

Yeah, me too, Ward thought.

Miraflores Palace
Caracas, Venezuela

Rodriguez awoke, savoring the silk sheets and Eva’s skin as she lay atop him, tense and unmoving. He slapped the teenager’s butt, laughing as she flinched.

“You let me oversleep. I should imprison you for treason.” He chuckled as she leaped up, trembling.

He was still smiling minutes later as he entered his spacious outer office, gesturing to his secretary for coffee before nodding to his waiting chief of staff, who followed Rodriguez into his private office.

“What news?” Rodriguez asked, thumbing the TV remote.

“Excellency, there have been… developments…”

Rodriguez shushed him and raised the volume as scenes of devastation filled the screen.

“…over five thousand dead, including passengers of a cruise ship. Photos obtained by CNN show the attacker moments before the blast.” A photo of a man with upraised arms appeared. “…unconfirmed reports of a link to a similar attempt yesterday near Singapore…”

“This is a disaster! Why was I not informed immediately?” Rodriguez screamed.

“Forgive me, Excellency. But I have strict orders not to disturb your…
siestas
.”

“Could you not see this was an exception, imbecile?”

“I was not sure—”

“Out! Everyone out!” Rodriguez screamed as his coffee arrived, and his terrified secretary fled with the chief of staff, clutching the undelivered coffee.

His mind raced. If he was exposed, who knew what the Americans or Chinese might do. The Chinese might even be the greater threat, since any retaliation would likely be blamed on the Americans. He took the sat phone from a drawer, his single link to Braun. He smiled as his rage subsided and summoned his chief of staff.

“Come in, Geraldo,” Rodriguez said agreeably as the man returned, still shaking.

“Destroy this phone within the hour and incinerate the debris. Also, due to the tragedy, our own Independence Day celebration tomorrow will be muted. Cancel the fireworks and other events. I will speak of our shared sorrow and announce the money saved will be added to our Panamanian Relief Fund.”

“But Excellency, the money is spent. There will be no savings.”

“Nor is there a relief fund, you idiot.” Rodriguez shook his head at the man’s inability to grasp the nuance of diplomacy.

Offices of Phoenix Shipping

“Hello,” Basaev said in Paris.

“It’s a go. Good luck,” Braun said.

“Understood,” Basaev said and hung up.

Braun was improvising in response to the unexpected.
China Star
was in Singapore, and coverage was limited while Panama dominated the news. Blow-dried anchormen had descended on the isthmus and hired every available helicopter at exorbitant rates, screaming “cover-up” at the Panamanian authorities’ fruitless efforts to restrict air traffic over the canal. But things weren’t all negative. The Black Sea vessel had berthed at last, allowing him to unleash Basaev. He just needed to wind things up while his luck still held.

He studied a CD, a dialogue pieced together from recordings of Rodriguez, Dugan, and Kairouz, with Rodriguez detailing the attacks and the others agreeing. Initially he’d been concerned with the focus on Panama, for Rodriguez talked of little else and he had to use what he had, but the unexpected severity of the Panamanian attack strengthened the ruse. The recording would be more credible still when Kairouz confirmed it, on pain of unspeakable horrors to befall Cassie. Things were coming together despite the unexpected.

He tapped out a message to Motaki.

RECENT EVENTS NO PROBLEM. FINAL PHASE INITIATED. TIDYING UP.

He encrypted the message and piggybacked it on to the porn-site video, then lingered on the site, aroused. He hated to celebrate alone. Perhaps sweet little Yvette had recovered.

Presidential Residence
Tehran, Iran
0130 Hours Local Time
5 July

Motaki stared at the monitor, bleary-eyed. US markets were closed for the holiday, and it was after market hours in Europe and Asia, but from Toronto to Sao Paulo gold and oil spiked. The panic was sure to roil Asian markets at the open. But where was Sheibani, and why was there no coverage of
China Star
? And more to the point, would the unintended disaster in Panama heighten global security and jeopardize the final strike?

He calmed himself. Everything was Allah’s will. Panama was necessary to recruit Rodriguez, who provided Braun, who so cleverly blinded the infidels to Iran’s role. Motaki slipped a hardware key into a port to allow access to his office e-mail. He expected the spam message but rose to ensure none of his sleeping family stirred before accessing the porn site.

He read Braun’s message with relief. Soon now, he thought, glancing at the time. He wouldn’t wait up for the Asian markets. He needed his rest.

Hospital Del Niños
Panama City, Panama

Doctors scurried by, heads bent in urgent exchanges, struggling with disaster beyond even the worst postulated by planners of never-held emergency drills. Reyes reentered the room he’d fled when Miguelito had stirred and cried for Maria. Telling the boys terrified him because first he must accept it himself, abandoning the lies he’d told himself when he couldn’t reach her. But truth lay nearby in a makeshift morgue.

He met the sad gazes of his parents and in-laws. One grandmother sat at each bedside, holding the boys’ hands as the men stood nearby quiet in their grief. Reyes’s mother rose and took his face between her hands.

“You should rest,
hijo
. We will call if the little ones wake.”

Reyes shook his head. “There is no rest for me,
Mama.
”

“I know,
hijo
, I know. But you need this time to grieve. The boys need your strength.”

Reyes folded her in a hug, then nodded and left. He was near the visitors lounge, crowded with people glued to a TV, when he heard his name.

“Manuel,” Maria’s father said, hurrying after him. “Do you know yet who did this?”

He shook his head. “No. I left the office when—”

He stared past his father-in-law and charged into the lounge to the TV.

“…confirmed the explosion of the M/T
Asian Trader
was the work of a suicide bomber, as shown in this photo obtained by CNN. At present, no group has claimed responsi—”

Reyes stared. After the blast, the search for his family had taken precedence. Only now did he hear the familiar name. He ran for the stairs.

Beijing, People’s Republic of China

President Zhang Wei waited until the steward poured tea and bowed from the room.

“So, gentlemen. What of these attacks?”

“They seem linked,” Premier Wang Fei said.

“But motives are unclear,” added Li Gang, Minister for State Security. “Malacca alone could be a US ruse to justify increased US Navy presence in the strait, but Panama makes no sense in that context.”

Wang nodded. “We must consider it. Your instructions, Mr. President?”

“Tread cautiously,” Zhang said. “Offer Panama our help while assuring the US our help is based on mutual interest and not to exert influence. The lie will be recognized, but reducing the burden on US taxpayers will make it palatable. Simultaneously, signal our resolve to protect our own interests in the Malacca Straits by rotating our new destroyers through to visit our friends in Myanmar on a regular basis.”

“At once, Mr. President,” Wang said. “Further thoughts?”

“Just one,” Zhang said. “Not so very long ago, our Venezuelan friend petitioned us to lend financial support to a second canal in Nicaragua. As I recall, one of his main arguments was that it would reduce our vulnerability to trade disruption at Panama.” He paused. “President Rodriguez was quite prescient, it seems.”

“Almost clairvoyant,” Wang agreed.

“Explore that,” President Zhang said.

Gardner Residence
Alexandria, Virginia

Gardner cursed the Panamanians. He was on hold. Christ, what a day. He was at post-parade drinks at the Gunthers’ when the news hit. He’d immediately called the DDCI and volunteered to “coordinate intelligence.” That had backfired. Ward had been useless, and that territorial asshole Carlucci in Panama was worse. First he copped an attitude, and then tried a brush-off.

Gardner had soldiered on, working from home to dress up what little he knew into some semblance of a briefing. Then after all that, the Old Man rejected his offer of a personal Power Point presentation, insisting on a phone report—a mediocre recitation at best, and one it seemed the DDCI had already heard.

“Thanks, son,” the Old Man said when he finished. “What’s Ward’s ETA in Panama?”

Carlucci had sandbagged him, obviously with Ward in on it. Blindsided, he’d played along. “This evening, sir. I’ll call back with an updated ETA.”

“Unnecessary. Just inform me of anything significant.”

He’d found himself listening to a dial tone.

Ward left without so much as a “by-your-leave,” and everyone knew but him. And Ward was apparently still unconvinced Dugan was dirty, even after finding the offshore account and the ship he was babysitting in Singapore blew up. Just how many “coincidences” was Ward going to swallow? And now the insubordinate bastard wasn’t answering his phone.

Gardner fumed for hours, racking his brain for ways to reestablish control. He had to be careful though. Dugan’s involvement was a problem. He’d documented his own suspicions of Dugan by initiating the financial probe, but he hadn’t overridden Ward about involving Dugan in the first place, so he wasn’t completely in the clear. It could get even messier if Ward continued to insist on the traitor’s innocence. What was required was a clear, unambiguous confession, sooner rather than later.

Inspiration came after his third Glenfiddich. All it took was a word to the Panamanians. When Dugan confessed, Gardner’s doubts were on record. If he didn’t—well, Gardner could hardly be held responsible for the excesses of foreign police.

He smiled and poured another scotch, thinking pleasant thoughts as he waited.

***

Like everyone in Panama, Sergeant Juan Perez was working late, trying to wrest order from the chaos. He looked down at the flashing button on his phone, surprised at the gringo’s persistence. He’d classified this Gardner as an asshole about ten seconds into the first call and lapsed into Spanish before hanging up. When multiple hang-ups failed to discourage him, Perez put him on “perpetual hold.” True, it tied up one of his lines, but he had three and could only talk on one at a time anyway.

Perez looked up as Captain Luna emerged from his office, pointed at his watch, and mimed eating. Perez nodded and stood, giving his phone one last look before leaving. Perhaps the gringo asshole would give up before he returned from dinner.

***

Reyes waited outside until Captain Luna and Juan Perez left for dinner. He wanted no awkward condolences and feared he might be sent home. The squad room fell quiet as he entered, warning his colleagues away with body language and a grim face.

As he sat, he noticed the blinking “hold” light on one of the lines he shared with Perez.

“
Teniente Reyes. Quien habla?
”

“You speak English?” a voice blurted, obviously startled.

“Yes, I speak English. This is Lieutenant Reyes. Who is this?”

“Gardner, Lieutenant. Lawrence Gardner. I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency in Washington. I have confidential information regarding the
Asian Trader
situation.”

Reyes bristled. Not a “situation,” gringo. Murder. Who was this drunken asshole?