Dead Water

37

"So no one else has this video?" Styles asked Phillips.

"Somebody has something, but no one has this infrared version. The only reason President Williams had it was because we gave it to them. I'm not giving this to anyone."

From all appearances, the people on the yacht Oceaneer were relaxing on holiday. Two men could be seen fishing. Three women were sunbathing. Other individuals could occasionally be seen going about yacht business. Anchored within fifteen miles of the spot where the American president had just been killed, there weren't the emotional feelings that might have been expected. It was this observation that had roused Darlene Phillips's suspicion.

J. C. had piloted the group back to their home airbase, where the group transferred to their chopper. While on the ground. they had been able to pick up five hours of much-needed sleep.

"We need to come up with an idea on how to get aboard that yacht," Starr declared.

"Without drawing a lot of unwanted attention, either from the yacht or any onlookers," Phillips added.

"You know the adage about how sometimes the best place to hide is out in the open?" Styles queried. "Maybe an open approach is our answer. I've thought about going in after dark and other scenarios, but this idea has me intrigued."

"That being…?" responded Starr.

"What if we faked being the Coast Guard? Somehow we come up with a small Coast Guard boat; under that guise, we board them, and the rest is history."

"Who would go?" Phillips probed.

"Starr, you, and me. We'd have J. C. monitoring all radio communications with interested parties."

Nodding, Starr remarked, "You know, that's not half-bad. Anyone watching might show a curious interest, but I wouldn't think much more. Assholes on the yacht aren't going to start any shit with the Coast Guard. Yeah, it gets us on board where we can take control. I like it."

Phillips added, "I should be able to finagle any paperwork making us appear legitimate. I second the idea."

"That's it, then. Phillips, start doing your magic and see where we might borrow a Coast Guard boat. Since it's an international port, it shouldn't be too much of a problem," Styles directed. "Okay, let's go inform J. C.!"

Phillips had researched the activities of the Coast Guard and was well versed on their plan of action. They were conducting a second stringent investigation of the boats in the area but were behind the curve on information regarding the Oceaneer.

Starr had gone to a local army/navy surplus store and bought clothing that would pass for Coast Guard attire.

"I've got the perfect boat, guys. It went in for repairs at a local service yard and is scheduled to be picked up tomorrow. We'll grab it early. I've already got the paperwork ready, including a full set of orders to carry with us."

"I'll retrieve the boat myself. Marv, you don't look military enough," Starr said, chiding him about his appearance.

"Fine by me," he said without looking up. "We'll be decked out and waiting for you at the dock. I'm glad this is a civilian facility. We shouldn't be bothered."

Christman had landed the team's helicopter after swapping over from their jet near the service yard in an area where they were unobserved.

Starr walked straight toward the office while the other three offloaded the gear they intended to bring. All of it was contained in duffel bags, with Styles, Phillips, and Christman shouldering AR-15s. Phillips was also carrying two medium-size metal briefcases containing three of her laptops. They were on the dock less than ten minutes when service yard employees brought the twenty-six-foot center console equipped with twin Yamaha two-hundred-horsepower outboard engines and tied it off twenty feet away from where the group was standing. Without giving them a second look, they hurried away as the three started loading the boat. Four minutes later, Starr joined them.

"Who's running the boat? Probably look weird if 'White'," Christman said, referencing the officer in command, "pilots the craft."

Styles agreed. "I'll run it, or J. C., you can. Doesn't matter to me."

"I'll take it. I'd feel better with your attention on everything else."

Six minutes later at exactly eight in the morning, the foursome was heading out into the harbor.

Phillips had inserted all the proper requirements into the local Coast Guard computers if anyone might happen to check. Unless delved into deeply, their cover would hold.

Styles, using binoculars to scout the area, saw one other Coast Guard boat heading off in the opposite direction. "We don't seem to have a lot of company other than where the helicopters went down, which was on the opposite side of the bay. Lot of activity over there."

"That area will be closed off for a while," remarked Starr.

Within fifteen minutes, they were in sight of the Oceaneer.

"Okay, guys, game faces on," Styles directed.

Rather than use the radio that would be overheard, the decision had been made to hail the large yacht by bullhorn.

"Oceaneer, this is the United States Coast Guard. Prepare to be boarded," Starr instructed in a no-nonsense tone.

Two crew members appeared from the rear of the main salon, located middeck on the triple-decked craft. Both walked over to the rail.

"What do you want?" the older of the two men yelled back.

"General inspection of craft and documentation," answered Starr.

"That has already been done."

"It's going to be done again. We are boarding your vessel."

In emphasis, Styles and Phillips unslung their AR-15s, holding them across their chests.

"I will get the captain."

"You do that. Make it quick."

J. C. brought the boat to the rear landing platform and expertly guided it right next to it. Styles, with two lines in hand, jumped off and tied up the boat, with Phillips still holding her assault rifle at the ready. The boat secured, Starr and Phillips joined Styles on the landing deck. Styles had his rifle back in hand. Starr was standing between them with a large clipboard in hand. All three had cross looks upon their faces. Christman, with the motors shut down, was busy checking radio traffic.

The man who had met them at the rail returned with the captain of the boat, a man in his midforties and of heavy build. Two blonde women had come out on the deck above to observe the scene.

Styles muttered low, "The women are European, the men Middle Eastern."

The captain came down to greet them. "What is this about? We have been thoroughly checked out, and there are no problems. Why must we go through this again?"

"Because I said so," snapped Starr. "I want to see your ship's documents, passports of everyone on board, and I want everyone in your salon in ten minutes. Anyone who is not there is leaving with us. Now!"

"Follow me," the captain retorted, grumbling.

"What is your name, Captain?"

"Madid."

"Unusual name for a boat registered in Greece."

Captain Madid turned and faced Starr. "I'm not aware that a captain has to be from the country that his vessel is registered."

"I didn't say he did. I just made an observation. Is there a problem here?"

"No. No problem."

"Captain, the sooner we complete our task, the sooner we'll be off your boat."

"That is fine with me."

Starr, Styles, and Phillips stood impatiently in the large, lavishly decorated salon as Captain Madid ordered his first officer to immediately have everyone join them.

"Be sure they bring their passports."

"Yes, sir," the first officer said as he left to find everyone.

"How many people are aboard, Captain?" probed Starr.

"Eleven. Five are crew members, and six are guests."

"Is the owner of this vessel aboard?"

"No. He was kind enough to give this cruise as a wedding present."

"Wow. That is one hell of a wedding present."

"I agree."

"If I might inquire, what is the relationship between the owner and who he gave the boat to?"

"His brother-in-law; he was married two weeks ago."

"How long is this cruise to last?"

"I've been instructed to take up to two months. They have a list of locations they would like to visit."

"Where have you been prior?"

"We spent five days in the Bahamas. This is our second stop. From here, we are to depart for Miami."

Two couples entered the salon holding passports. The captain directed them to sit on one of the three large leather sofas. With three glass walls encompassing the salon, the view was magnificent. A wet bar, large flat-screen television mounted on the front wall, a computer station: it was lacking for nothing.

"Have everyone hold on to their passports until everyone arrives. We'll check them one at a time," Starr ordered.

"As you wish."

Over the next fifteen minutes, all but one arrived.

"Captain, Roberto is down in the engine room performing some maintenance task. He said he would be up in twenty minutes," the first officer reported.

Starr looked at Styles and nodded and then looked at the first officer and stated, "Take him to this Roberto. Get his ass up here right now!"

"Yes, sir," Styles responded with Phillips hiding a grin. Styles followed the first officer out of the room.

"I apologize for the inconvenience; however, under the present circumstances, all foreign-registered vessels are being double-checked. We'll get this over with as quickly as possible," Starr stated.

Walking over to the far-left person sitting on the left side sofa, Phillips stared hard at the woman and commanded, "Passport." The woman handed it over. Phillips studied it intently, particularly the photograph, made some notes on the clipboard she was carrying, and then returned it. One at a time, she went to each individual and repeated the process. She had slung her AR-15 across her back.

Phillips, after studying the passport of one man, walked over to Starr. "Remember the video we captured of two guys helping a third out of the water?"

"Yeah."

"This is definitely one of the two guys."

Starr grabbed the passport and walked over to him. Looking intently at the passport and then back at the man it belonged to, Starr ordered, "Stand up and turn around."

The man pretended not to understand.

"Rifles at ready," Starr ordered, and in an instant, he and Phillips had their ARs at the ready. "Captain, tell this man to stand up and turn around, or I'll shoot him where he sits. Do it."

Captain Madid spoke to the man in an Arabic language.

Slowly, the sitting man stood, glaring angrily at Starr, and turned around.

Starr took a long wire tie and secured the man's hands behind his back, turned him around, and pushed him back on the sofa. "Don't move!" Starr ordered.

Captain Madid spoke to the man in Arabic.

Phillips drew down on Captain Madid. "Starr, there's a knife under the cushion behind him."

Starr cracked the man in the side of the head with the butt of his rifle, grabbed him by his shirt, and threw him on the floor. He reached in between the cushions and came out with a sheathed knife. He turned to Captain Madid.

"Turn around." Starr immediately secured him, as well.

Christman, still on the Coast Guard boat, spotted another one headed toward him. He picked up his binoculars and was able to clearly make out yet another CG vessel.

"Starr," he said over the comm set they were all wearing. "We've got company — more Coast Guard guys."

"Roger," he replied to J. C. Addressing Phillips, he instructed, "Hold up at the ready." She placed the clipboard aside and unslung her AR, holding it across her chest, finger on the trigger. She didn't bother to look at him. Starr proceeded outside and walked to the rail as the second vessel was coming up to Christman. This boat contained two seamen, an obvious commanding officer, and two men dressed in civilian clothing, which Christman thought odd.

The commanding officer on board yelled over to Christman, "Surprised to see you! This boat is on our list to check!"

Thinking fast, Christman responded, "We have a computer guru with us. Someone wants this boat's computers checked. We just got word about three hours ago. Guess the paperwork didn't catch up with you yet."

"My, what a surprise," the second boat's commander joked. "Well, no sense in both of us here, so have fun; we'll be on our way to the next one." Looking up at the rail, he saw Starr and saluted, receiving one in return. The second vessel turned and headed away with the two civilians looking hard at him.

"Good answer, J. C.," Starr said, and he returned to the salon. "We're all set; keep going," he instructed Phillips.

"Starr, who do you think the two guys in street clothes were?" asked J. C.

Phillips cut in. "I can answer that. The feds are going to have their people on board to try to find something that the Coast Guard guys might have overlooked the first time. No doubt that's who they were."

"Guess that explains why they were staring daggers at me as they left," Christman retorted.

"J. C., keep a sharp eye out for them. If they return, we don't want to be surprised," instructed Starr.

"Copy that."

Styles was following the first officer down to the engine room. He was impressed with the cleanliness of the yacht. There did not appear to be a spot anywhere on anything. The bright work of chrome and brass absolutely shimmered. He was led down some stairs and to a large metal door.

"In there," pointed the first officer.

"After you," instructed Styles.

With a shrug, the man opened the door and stepped inside. There was no obvious response to his entrance.

"Now down on the floor, face-first, legs spread, and interlock your fingers behind your head," commanded Styles.

The man was reluctant to do so.

Styles, who had not yet entered the room, stated calmly, "I have no problem whatsoever shooting you. Down on the floor."

The first officer complied quickly.

Styles quickly stood over the man and secured him with plastic wire ties, binding his arms and feet. He stuffed a rag in his mouth to silence him.

Styles moved quickly throughout the entire engine compartment. Checking everywhere, Roberto was not to be found. Then a thought hit him, hard.

Over their earbuds, Styles warned, "Starr, nobody's home. I think he might be headed for the fuel tanks. Put Phillips on guard, and you start making your way downstairs. The tanks should be on the lowest level, amidships or slightly rearward. If you spot him, unless he's actively trying to blow us up, let me know where he is. If you have to shoot, try not to kill him, and don't hit the damn tanks."

"Gotcha."

Styles moved as quickly as he dared to where he thought the tanks would be without putting himself at risk. There was no doubt in his mind that the man he sought was none other than Nazir al-Hadid, who would be more than willing to blow himself and everyone else up. He also knew he probably had very little time. Up ahead, he saw a trapdoor. That should be it.

"Starr, there's a trapdoor in a hallway, probably directly below you, two flights down. I'm going in." Styles had developed a knack for walking in virtual silence, which he employed now. Reaching the entrance in the floor, he put his ear to the steel floor and could make out noises below him. In a low voice, he told Starr, "I'm leaving my AR on the floor. Make sure it's secure." He had his Beretta in one hand as he slowly opened the door in the floor. No response. He looked inside and did not see anyone within a fifteen-foot circle. There were two large metal cabinets just to his right with a four-foot space between them, both full of gauges. In one motion, he dropped through the opening to the floor seven feet below and then tucked and rolled between the two cabinets.

Immediately, two shots rang out at him, each missing by more than three feet. Stupid, now I know where you are. Styles holstered his Beretta and retrieved two of his throwing knives. Like a snake, he inched along the floor until he could see a shadow moving from light that was thrown by the fluorescent fixtures above. Another shot rang out, directed toward the place that Styles no longer occupied. He guessed he was about twelve feet from his quarry. In one motion, Styles stood and cocked his throwing arm. A single glance told him that Nazir al-Hadid was just finishing affixing a bomb to the fuel tanks. A flash split the air and impaled al-Hadid in the right shoulder, causing him to scream. A second followed, hitting him just above the left elbow, and he collapsed onto the corrugated steel floor. The wounds were not life threatening, but certainly disabling. Looking around cautiously as he approached al-Hadid, he was certain that only the two of them were in the room. The fuel tanks were enormous. He couldn't even begin to guess their capacity. Standing over al-Hadid, he kicked the Glock nine-millimeter pistol away that had been dropped.

"Unlike you, I don't want to blow us up." He reached down and yanked both knives out of his victim. Wiping the blood on al-Hadid's shirt, he told Starr, "Al-Hadid is secure." He holstered his knives.

Through his pain, sheer rage glowered from Nazir al-Hadid's eyes. "How do you know my name?" he snarled before realizing the mistake of admission.

Styles squatted down beside him. "Good. You like to talk. You'll talk more."

"I will tell you nothing."

"You won't have a choice," growled Styles.

Styles turned him over and thoroughly checked him for weapons. Finding none, he secured both his arms and legs with wire ties. He then hoisted him over his shoulder and managed to get him up out of the engine bay and into the corridor. He started making his way back, found a stateroom close to the main salon, and dumped al-Hadid onto the bed. He double-checked the ties and then went to rejoin his group.

"The first officer is secure in the engine room. Al-Hadid is wounded and secure in a stateroom just down the hall."

"What about the others?" asked Starr.

"I think it's safe to assume the entire crew is part of the terrorist plot, but I'm not sure about the passengers."

"I've been running the passports, and by all accounts, the wedding party is just that. I think they're being used as a cover," offered Phillips.

"So what do we do with them? They've seen us," stated Christman.

"No innocents; that's what he said. We can't ignore that!" exclaimed Starr.

"I agree," stated Phillips.

"Take them back to their staterooms, be damn sure they are secure, and we'll leave the rest of the crew here," Styles directed.

As Phillips and Christman led the wedding party away, Starr and Styles bound the crew members with the plastic wire ties and then went and retrieved the first officer.

Styles walked back in with the first officer slung over his shoulder just as Phillips and J. C. returned. "Those people all set?"

"Yeah, they're not going anywhere," Phillips asserted emphatically.

Styles turned and started to leave.

"Where are you going?" Starr asked.

"To find an empty state room or something. Phillips, you're with me." The second door on the left was exactly what Styles was looking for, a small conference room. He tossed al-Hadid into a blue overstuffed leather lounger. "Give him something for the pain."

Looking a little confused, Phillips went to her small leather case and retrieved a syringe and then drew morphine into it from a small vial. Finding a vein in al-Hadid's right forearm, she injected the painkiller. Almost immediately, the man appeared more comfortable.

Styles peered hard into al-Hadid's eyes. "I gave you that to show you that if you answer my questions, this will go well for you. If you don't answer, it won't."

"I have nothing to say."

"Load that thing up with your special sauce," addressing Phillips.

Picking up another vial, she extracted the liquid it contained into the syringe. She nodded.

"Give it to him."

Finding the same vein, she injected approximately one-third of the contents into al-Hadid. His eyes immediately started to glaze over slightly.

"What is your name?" Styles demanded.

"I tell you nothing."

Styles nodded at Phillips, who injected half the remaining serum into al-Hadid.

They watched as his head started to fall to his chest. Styles grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head upright.

"What is your name?"

"A… a… Hadeddd…"

"He's under pretty far," Phillips offered.

"Who ordered the death of the American president?"

"All of us," al-Hadid stammered, managing a smirk, and then he reeled as Styles slapped him hard across his face. Styles knew that the blow wouldn't hurt due to the morphine; it was the shock value he wanted. Al-Hadid continued, "I shot down."

"Who planned it? Give me a name."

Al-Hadid was struggling valiantly against the drugs but was losing the battle. "I do not know."

Styles nodded again, but Phillips cautioned him.

"He's pretty close to the limit now."

"Take it to the limit — past if need be. We need answers."

Phillips injected the remaining portion in the syringe into al-Hadid. His eyes now were closed. Styles slapped him hard across his cheeks three times, causing his eyes to open slightly.

"Who planned the assassination of the American president?" Styles snarled at him.

"Al… Ali… Ryki Ali… and his brother." With that, his head collapsed on his chest. He jerked violently twice and died.

Over their earpieces, Starr informed them that they had company.

"Looks like the same bunch."

Looking at Phillips, Styles said, "We don't have much time. Find the computers and do whatever you do. We need the intel. Don't stop no matter what you hear." With that, he was running back toward Starr.

"Where's Phillips?" Starr asked.

"Getting the intel off their computers. We need to buy her time."

"What's the plan?"

"Wing it, what else? J. C., you copy that?"

"Copy that. What do you want from me?"

"Stand ready and look mad."