Gauntlet (24 page)

Turbee had found a way to control the house lights from his workstation, and now he brought them down a little, while increasing the luminescence of the Atlas Screen.

“The kid may be weird, but he does have a sense of theater, doesn’t he?” Lance whispered to Rahlson.

The overall impact of the presentation was powerful. The two red lines slowly approached the rendezvous point, with the
Mankial Star
line moving at about twice the speed of the
Haramosh Star
line. When the ships reached their destination, a melodic “ping” was emitted by the system. After the meeting, the
Mankial Star
reversed its direction, while the
Haramosh Star
continued southward along the Malahat Coast. Turbee allowed the simulation to cycle continuously as he raised the house lights.

“Dan, there is no doubt whatsoever that the
Mankial Star
was on a return voyage from the rendezvous when she was intercepted. You have photographic evidence of that rendezvous on the screens behind you. You have the routes of the ships on the screen before you. When the
USS Cushing
intercepted her, the Semtex had already been transferred to the
Haramosh Star.
In fact, there were some indications that trace amounts of Semtex were found in the hull of the
Mankial Star,
but they were attributed to false positives. The Semtex is on the
Haramosh Star,
right now.”

“Where is this ship heading?” asked Rahlson.

“I’ve checked that on the Net. Shipping schedules are pretty much public information these days. She’s heading to Vancouver, Canada,” replied Turbee.

It didn’t take long for this particular piece of information to be passed up the chain. There were the usual phone calls, emails, and electronic messages of various sorts sent to various important people. After 15 minutes Dan had an announcement to make.

“The DDCI, the Deputy Director, and the Secretary of Defense are all in Washington, and are all on their way over here. They want to see the demonstration that you just gave us, Turbee. This is a moment of critical... Turbee?”

There was a bit of chuckling. Turbee was gone, like the ghost he sometimes appeared to be.

I
T WAS JUST BEFORE SUNRISE, and a thin red line was creeping along the eastern horizon. The seas were calm, and the
Haramosh Star
was heading due east, at an exhilarating 45 knots. Captain Vince Ramballa himself was on the bridge, rolling a cigarette. He had a cup of steaming hot, freshly ground Java sitting on the console before him. The gauges and computer screens showed that the powerful new engines were functioning perfectly, and that there were no obstructions or ships ahead.

Vince was thinking vaguely about some dockside chatter he’d heard in Karachi, about an American Carrier Group that was conducting naval exercises northeast of Diego Garcia, when an ear-splitting scream shattered the serene predawn air. He instinctively brought his hands to his ears, and in the process of doing so, knocked the coffee into the tobacco can and the rolling papers to the floor.

“Holy–” was all he managed to spit out, as six F-14 Tomcats in tight formation roared overhead, only a few hundred feet above the water. “What the hell was that?” he exclaimed.

His chief navigator was likewise shocked, and the two of them peered at the still-dark overhead skies. Metal doors slammed, as other crewmembers rushed to the bridge. Alarm clocks were unnecessary when there were Tomcats roaring by at supersonic speeds. Sailors were shouting, asking what was going on. They knew that it couldn’t be good. Every man on the ship knew that, less than 12 hours earlier, they had made an unusual rendezvous with a large private yacht. Most had witnessed the slick engineering and mechanics that had been employed to move cargo of some description onboard. A number had worked on the further reload, moving the red brick-like packages received from the
Mankial Star
to the cargo hold of the PWS-12, stored in a secret pod in the belly of the
Haramosh Star.
Now they began to wonder exactly what they had on board.

Ten minutes passed, and the distinctive sound of helicopter engines became audible. There was a sharp gust of wind, and two US Navy HH-60H Seahawk helicopters appeared from the aft, matching the ship’s speed.

“This is the US Navy. Cut your engines. Cut your engines now and prepare to be boarded.”

Vince shook his head; he was known by his friends for his tendency to be bullheaded in situations like this. “Fuck them. Who are they anyway? These are international waters.” He told the engineer to keep the course and speed steady. The others looked at him fearfully. The Seahawks had a profoundly menacing appearance. “Keep going,” he said to the crew in his native Urdu. “Those Yankee bastards don’t own this part of the planet.”

“Cut your throttle NOW or we will blow your little tin can boat out of the water,” came the command from the helicopters. “Prepare to be boarded.”

The chief engineer reached for the throttle, but Vince put out his hand to stop him. “No,” he said. “We are in international shipping lanes. We ignore them.”

The engineer looked at Vince as though he was out of his mind. “It’s the US Navy. Are you nuts? These guys are from some carrier battle group south of here, and they could blow up all of India if they wanted to.”

“No,” said Vince. “Let’s see what they do.”

The engineer, navigator, and crewmen now assembled on the bridge were starting to look truly pained. A couple were looking toward the lifeboat stations.

“We repeat. This is the US Navy. Cut your throttle or we’ll blow your asses to Ceylon.” The Navy SEALs aboard the helicopters didn’t have orders to do that, but they figured they might as well have a little fun.

“No,” said Vince, keeping his hand on the throttle.

Another 30 seconds passed. There was enough light now to see the helicopters clearly. A large machine gun was hanging from the base of one of the Seahawks. Abruptly, a spray of 20-mm bullets walked along the starboard side of the
Haramosh Star.
The engineer reached once again for the throttle. Vince once again stayed his hand.

“No. We keep our speed and course.”

He was now facing a near mutiny from his men. But Vince was wily. He knew what the Americans were looking for, but he didn’t think they’d actually board his ship, or do any major damage. Yousseff had told him that the Americans, if they accosted him at sea, for all their military might and technological wizardry, did not have the political will to sink this little container ship. It would be international suicide. It just wouldn’t happen.

“Easy, comrades. Easy. They are not going to sink us. They are Americans. No balls at all.”

There was uneasy laughter from the crew. Vince reached underneath the command console and grabbed the small digital camera that Yousseff had given him. He set the focus and snapped a couple of shots of the helicopters, hoping there would be enough light to pick them up.

“Last warning, ladies. This ship stops or we will do things to it that are going to make you feel uncomfortable. Cut the throttle. Now.”

Vince stared dead ahead. The crew braced itself. Now what?

They did not have long to wait. On one of the choppers, the pilot turned to his Chief Gunnery Officer. “Let’s give ’em a little fireworks, Sam,” he said. “A mild shot. Stick an RPG into that front container there.”

“OK, boss,” said Sam, smiling. “It’ll be a pleasure.” He attached the RPG to the launcher, and took aim. This shot would have been impossible to miss.

Back on the ship, the front container shuddered and danced. Then there was a great roar, and a flash of fire and smoke. “Holy shit!” exclaimed more than one crewmember. Vince snapped a few more pictures and sighed. It looked like the Americans were serious about searching the small ship.

“OK, cut the throttle,” ordered Vince. “Let’s be gracious hosts and let these people on board. Put this on the International Emergency Frequency,” he told the radio operator. He picked up the microphone and began to speak quickly, in English. “This is the
Haramosh Star,
a container ship flying the flag of Pakistan. We are being attacked in international waters by the United States Navy. This is the
Haramosh Star...”

As the ship drifted to a halt, a series of ropes were dropped from the two helicopters. Eight SEALs descended from each helicopter, and the small team assembled on the still-smoking front deck. They marched, in full battle gear, toward the bridge house, ascended the stairs, and gathered on the bridge itself. Vince was still giving his emergency signal when the soldiers entered the small bridge, but he slid the digital camera into his pocket. With most of the crew there, and 16 armed Americans, it was getting crowded.

“We know that you’re sailing a ship full of explosives, for terrorist purposes,” said the leader of the small SEAL command. “Where are they?”

“No, sir, you are mistaken. We have no explosives aboard this ship. These containers are full of mostly mechanical parts, for automobiles, headed for Vancouver. No explosives here. None.”

“Don’t give us that bullshit, sir,” said the SEAL. “We know that there are explosives aboard this ship. Either you show us where they are or we will rip this ship apart to find them.”

“Sir, please. There are no explosives. Please do not rip apart my ship. We are carrying automobile parts. No explosives.”

“Last warning, buddy. The easy way or the hard way. Where are the explosives?”

Vince merely shrugged.

The SEAL commander smiled grimly. “OK boys, we have work to do. Let’s start with the containers.”

The team broke into four groups of four. Each had the latest high-tech version of an ion mobility spectrometer. The devices were designed to detect the presence of explosives, particularly plastique, C4, and Semtex. Developed in the wake of terrorist attacks on American soil, the technology had come far in five short years. The devices could pick up Semtex if there were even a few parts per million present. If there was any on this ship, or in its containers, the SEALs were certain that they would find it.

The Americans spent most of the day crawling over, under, and through the ship and its cargo. Fortunately it was a small ship. Its load was only 100 containers, and the soldiers went through each one. They worked hard, sweating profusely in the rising tropical sun. They were not particular in how they opened the containers, or how they sorted through the contents. They left chaos and disarray behind them, but they hadn’t received orders to be neat about the job. Their orders were to find the Semtex. Vince got plenty of excellent photographs.

The sun was directly overhead when the
USS Curtis Wilbur,
a new Arleighe-Burke class destroyer, pulled alongside the
Haramosh Star.
“Reinforcements and lunch,” joked one of the soldiers. The hot, thankless job continued, taken on by the new boarding party. Down into the cargo holds, into the engine room, behind the hydraulics, underneath the diesels, into the stern; they went into, under, over, and behind pretty much everything on the ship. There was some brief excitement when one of the teams thought they had picked up traces of something near the port hull, beside the engine room, but it was transitory, and was chalked up to another faulty reading.

Things became more interesting when, at three, the
Rajput,
a Ranvir class destroyer from the Indian Navy, sailed into view. Vince saw her coming, and knew that she was responding to his earlier distress call. He also knew that the modifications made to the
Haramosh Star
at the Karachi Drydock and Engineering yard had served their purpose. No crew of American soldiers, or any soldiers for that matter, would find the cargo that had been placed aboard his ship scant hours ago. And now the Indian Navy was getting involved. This was going to be delightful. Vince picked up the microphone and hailed them on the international frequency.

“I have visual contact with you. We have been illegally boarded in international waters by the American Navy for God knows what reason. We request assistance.”

This kind of situation simply didn’t occur very often on the international stage. An Indian warship was about to court danger to assist a Pakistani vessel. For whatever reason, an American warship from the mighty John C. Stennis Carrier Group was harassing a pitiful little civilian container ship. Few countries in the world could resist an opportunity to show up the Americans when given the chance.

Things escalated rapidly. The commander of the Rajput got into a shouting match with the commander of the Curtis Wilbur. The Curtis Wilbur called for backup, and the
John C. Stennis
scrambled another squadron of Tomcats. The testosterone was starting to fly.

The United States was by far the largest military power in the world, and had, without question, the largest air force. India, by comparison, had only the fourth largest air force on the planet. The problem for the Americans that day was that most of her mighty military force was elsewhere. There were but four squadrons of aircraft on the
John C. Stennis.
India, on the other hand, was local, and had thousands of planes in the area. It put the Americans in a difficult position.

The dispute continued to escalate. Ten Tomcats flew by the
Haramosh Star.
A few minutes later, 20 Mig-21’s with Indian markings appeared in the sky. Fortunately, the parading and chest thumping stopped before it got completely out of hand. High-order American officials talked to high-order Indian officials, and a conflagration was averted, but not before Vince had a wealth of photographs. More than 100, all told — the final shots being composed of American and Indian warplanes roaring low overhead. Then the SEALs left, the Curtis Wilbur left, and the Rajput left. In the almost deafening silence that followed, Vince’s men surveyed the mess on their ship. The disrupted containers, the torn wall and floor panels, and the general mayhem left behind by the SEALs painted a far-from-pretty picture.

“I guess we start cleaning it up?” one of them asked.

“No,” said Vince. “We wait.”

Then the reporters came. First, a crew by helicopter from the
Sri Lanka Times
, whose reporters had monitored most of the exchange on short-wave radios. Then reporters from the
Mumbai Herald
arrived, then Reuters, CNN, News Corp, the
London Times
, the
Washington Post
, and all the rest. Vince let them all download the contents of his camera. He gave all of them the run of his ship. He said to all of them, in broken English, somewhat faked, “No explosives here. None. But still they destroy this little ship.”

Back in Langley, the Pentagon, and the White House, the wise men and spin doctors knew that they had a complete disaster on their hands. The word “clusterfuck” was used liberally and with intensity when no explosives showed up. The frequency of its use notched upward when the
Rajput
came on the scene. When the Indian Air Force made its appearance, “goatfuck” replaced “clusterfuck.” The media feeding frenzy was beginning. Then came the icing on the cake.

Somehow CNN, with its immense resources, was able to score an interview with His Excellency, the president of Pakistan. “I have no idea what the Americans were thinking,” he said, smiling sagaciously into the camera. “We told them that there was no Semtex on that ship. We told them that the Karachi Star Line is a model corporate citizen and represents one of the finest examples of Pakistan’s new and growing economy. We told them that we sympathized, and that we would do everything to assist them. But they insisted on looking in the wrong direction.”

The reporter was no fool. “Semtex you say, Your Excellency. What Semtex?” Up until that point, every official account had used the word “explosives.”

“Why, sir, that plastic explosive, that Semtex, that came from Libya. That is what the Americans say was on board the
Haramosh Star.”

“But, Mr. President, the Semtex was all destroyed a few days ago. We all saw the footage of that dramatic blast at Bazemah.”

“Well, young man, according to the Americans, not all of it. Obviously, not all of it.”

It went downhill from there. In the course of explaining the theft of the explosives en route from Benghazi to Bazemah, the President’s press advisor was forced to disclose that there were American casualties during that theft. The Presidential cover-up was uncovered, and it was admitted that various soldiers from the
Theodore Roosevelt
Group had died, not on further covert missions in Iraq, but on covert missions in Libya.