Sea Of Terror

Chapter 12

It hadn't been at all difficult to talk Tricia Johnson into bed. Twenty minutes' casual small talk by the Atlas Pool had convinced her that they'd known each another for years. She even "remembered" having some drinks and a burger with him and some other friends at the Rathskeller one evening. Tricia, Llewellyn suspected, was achingly lonely after her bad marriage and on the lookout for someone new.

Llewellyn had pulled this scam several times before on the last ship he was on, but never with such spectacular success. The two of them now were stretched out in her bed after several exhausting hours of lovemaking, the sheets and blankets in a tangle beneath them, their swimsuits discarded on the carpet. Her wealthy grandparents had done well by her; 6029 was one of the mid-to-upper-priced staterooms on Deck Six, with a large ocean-view window and a sliding door leading out to a private balcony on the starboard side.

As he'd expected, she looked a lot better in the flesh, as it were, than she had in the black-and-white fuzziness of the X-Star scan. He held her close, stroking her, whispering in her ear how glad he was to have found her and what a remarkable coincidence it had been to meet here, three thousand miles from home…

His only problem through the rest of the cruise would be to stay clear of her when he was on-duty and in uniform. That wouldn't be too hard to arrange, since he could track her identity chip anywhere on the ship and always know exactly where she was.

The stateroom door swung open and two men in security uniforms walked in.

"What the hellT Llewellyn shouted. He blinked. He didn't know either of these guys, though they were wearing blue and white security uniforms, and one was holding the security key that had given them access to the stateroom.

They also both held automatic pistols with suppressors screwed to the muzzles.

"Sorry to interrupt you two," one of them said with a nasty leer, gesturing with the pistol. "Get up! Hands behind your heads!"

Johnson tried to cover herself with the sheet, but one of the intruders yanked it away. "On your feet, whore!"

"You're David Llewellyn?" the other said. "Head of Ship's Security?"

The pistol was inches from his nose. "Uh… yeah. I'm Llewellyn."

"Ship's Security?" Johnson said, looking at him. "David? What is all this?"

"If this is a robbery," Llewellyn told the gunmen, "my wallet is back in my quarters."

"Get dressed."

"I don't know," the leering intruder said. "I think we should take them like that."

"Majnun!" the other man said. He added in English, to Llewellyn, "Make yourselves decent. You will both come with us."

"We believe," William Rubens said, "that we have a situation developing in the North Atlantic."

He was standing at the podium at the front of one of the sub-basement briefing rooms deep beneath the foundations of the White House. On the projection screen behind him was a satellite photograph, somewhat grainy and low resolution but with a sharp, metallic glint to both them and the surface of the water, of two ships side-by-side, one much smaller than the other.

The audience listened impassively in the twilight of the room. Major General Barton and Admiral Prendergast of the Joint Chiefs both were there, together with several uniformed aides. Debra Collins, Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA, was there as well, along with Thompson of the DIA, Carter from NCTC, Radebaugh from Homeland Security, and Dominic, the NSC's liaison with the FBI.

At the head of the table, at the far end from Rubens, was George Francis Wehrum, senior aide to the current Chairperson of the National Security Council, Dr. Donna Bing.

Rubens had crossed swords with both Wehrum and his boss more than once.

The National Security Council, or NSC, consisted of about one hundred staffers working within the labyrinthine recesses of the White House basement. Under the direction of ANSA, the assistant to the president for National Security Affairs — currently an unpleasant woman named Dr. Donna Bing — the NSC briefed the President on all potential international crises. The Joint Chiefs of Staff kept the President up-to-date on all military developments worldwide; the NSC kept him informed on unfolding diplomatic, economic, and intelligence problems and, when necessary, ran the President's White House Situation Room.

Rubens had called Donna Bing's office two hours earlier, requesting a special briefing session this morning. His audience now included Wehrum and several other NSC staffers, as well as liaisons from the Joint Chiefs, the CIA, and NCTC.

"At approximately oh-eight-thirty hours GMT," Rubens told them, "or about six and a half hours ago, now, a Japanese warship escorting the latest plutonium transport vessel from England to Japan exploded and sank in the North Atlantic, about a hundred miles off the tip of Cornwall. Initial reports were that the explosion was an accident, possibly the simultaneous detonation of her Harpoon warheads. Signals intercepts from GCHQ in northern England picked up radio traffic in the area indicating that the plutonium ship, the Pacific Sandpiper, was picking up survivors, that a civilian cruise ship that happened to be in the area was moving to assist, and that a French military helicopter was also moving in to look for survivors. Other ships and aircraft are also deploying to the area."

Turning, Rubens aimed the bright red dot of a laser pointer at the screen, indicating the smaller of the two ships. "This vessel is the Pacific Sandpiper Three hundred twenty-five feet long, seven thousand, seven hundred twenty-five tons' displacement, with a crew of twenty-eight, plus thirty security personnel on board. British flagged, owned and operated by PNTL, out of Barrow, England. On board are fourteen TN 28 VT transport flasks, each weighing ninety-eight tonnes, containing a total of twenty-five hundred kilograms of plutonium. That's two and a half tonnes of highly radioactive material."

His audience shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The plutonium shipments to Japan had long given the NSC cause for concern. Some of the Council's deliberations had helped shape the regulations surrounding those shipments — such as the arming of a civilian vessel and the embarkation of large numbers of armed security personnel.

Rubens shifted the laser dot to the larger vessel, riding close against the plutonium ship's right side. "This is the civilian cruise ship that was rendering assistance," he said. "Royal Sky Line's Atlantis Queen. Nine hundred sixty-four feet long, displacing ninety thousand tons. A crew of nine hundred, with about twenty-four hundred passengers. British flagged, out of Southampton." He turned back to face the audience. "The escort was the Ishikari, with a crew of ninety."

"A terrible tragedy, I'm sure," Wehrum said from the far side of the table. "How, exactly, does this involve the NSC?"

"According to Royal Sky's records," Rubens said, "over twelve hundred of the passengers on board the Atlantis Queen are American citizens. Further, the United States is signatory to the international agreements surrounding the plutonium shipments, and by treaty shares the responsibility for safeguarding those shipments. And, more to the point, we now believe there is a possibility that the Pacific Sandpiper has been seized by forces hostile to the United States."

"If you mean terrorists," General Barton snapped, "sayso."

"We don't know who is involved as yet," Rubens said. "As yet, we've been unable to make contact with either ship. But there is that possibility, yes."

"What's that on the plutonium ship's forward deck?" Prendergast wanted to know. "I can't quite make it out."

"That," Rubens said, "is part of the problem. It's a helicopter out of Brest, France. Signals intercepts identified it as French military. The French deny that it's ALAT — French Army — and ATC records identify only a single civilian helicopter operating out of Brest this morning. We're still checking into that."

Rubens indicated the photograph on the screen behind him, pointing to the blocks of text at the lower right, including the date and time stamps. "This photo was taken by one of our Argus satellites at ten-forty-eight hours GMT… that's just less than five hours ago. The image was taken by narrow-aperture radar from an altitude of one hundred twenty-nine miles. Radar has a much longer wavelength than visible light, so detail resolution is necessarily lower than what we can manage with optical sensors. The target, however, was under largely overcast skies at the time, and this is the best we could do.

"As you can see, the cruise ship appears to be secured to the freighter. At first we thought that they were taking injured aboard from the Sandpiper — the Atlantis Queen has a large and well-stocked shipboard hospital — but you'll notice here…" His laser pointer flicked along the metallic glitter of the V-shaped wakes frozen astern of the two ships. "Our analysts tell me that wakes of that size would be generated by ships of this size moving at a speed of between four and six knots."

Rubens flicked off the pointer. "There is something extremely wrong about this. Both the Queen and the Sandpiper should have remained in the vicinity of the disaster, assisting with rescue efforts. At the time this photograph was taken, they'd actually moved to a point some three miles southwest of the disaster. In the hours since, they have traveled an additional fifty miles, indicating an average speed of eight to ten knots.

"From the photograph, it appears that the Queen has taken the Sandpiper under tow. We have received no distress call from either ship.. save for the original traffic about the Ishikari blowing up. Under normal circumstances, other ships are not permitted to come within a mile of the Sandpiper Admittedly, the Queen might have come alongside to transfer injured personnel, but we don't understand why the two should be moving together now, at a fairly high rate of speed.

"And finally, there's this."

Rubens reached into his jacket pocket and produced a flat silver MP3 player. "GCHQ picked this up as a signals intercept at ten-eighteen hours GMT. It's impossible to determine the precise origin of the signal without triangulation, but we know it was from the general vicinity of these ships shortly after the sinking of the Ishikari." Holding the player high so everyone at the table could hear, he pressed the play button.

A burst of static sounded, followed by a harsh voice saying, "Hallak… hallak… hallak." There was a pause filled by the hiss of static, and then the words repeated. "Hallak… hallak… hallak."

"Hallak, ladies and gentlemen," Rubens said, "is the Arabic word for now\"

That caused a stir in the audience. "A signal of some sort," Debra Collins said. "After the sinking of the escort."

"It's difficult to see what else it might have been," Rubens replied. "It's possible that the destruction of the Ishikari was deliberate sabotage, designed both to take the Sandpiper's military escort out of the picture and to draw the cruise ship in close to assist with SAR efforts. The helicopter was over the Channel at the time, and immediately radioed Brest that it was proceeding to the disaster site to assist… despite the fact that its fuel would have been critically low if it had flown to the Ishikari and then back to Brest, even without spending any time at the scene of the disaster."

"Obviously," Wehrum pointed out, "they were able to land on the Sandpiper's deck."

"Indeed," Rubens replied. "But how would a civilian helicopter have known that a ship of the Sandpiper's design was going to be available for a landing at sea? We picked up nothing on radio frequencies between ship and aircraft, other than the fact that the aircraft was on its way. And the fact that that helicopter was masquerading as a military aircraft is… disturbing. It suggests that after the Ishikari explosion, which quite possibly was intended as a diversion, people on board either the Sandpiper or the Queen carried out a hijacking, probably in concert with armed attackers off that helicopter. If so, then unknown hostile forces are now in control of both vessels, and taking them to an unknown destination."

"And just who is the enemy?" Admiral Prendergast asked. "Al-Qaeda?"

"We don't know, sir. Not yet. However, this operation has the flash and high profile we've come to associate with them."

"Al-Qaeda is a spent force, Mr. Rubens," General Barton pointed out. "Broken. They haven't been able to mount a single effective operation since nine-eleven."

"Not for lack of trying, sir," Rubens replied. "And perhaps they're not as broken as we've come to believe. Or this may be a new group with a similar signature. There's no way to tell. Yet."

"We can assume al-Qaeda until we learn differently," Collins pointed out. "Do you have any intelligence leads, Mr. Rubens?"

"A few. We're working them."

"So where are those ships headed now?"

"At last report, they were on a heading of two-four-zero. That's roughly the correct course for the Sandpiper — toward the Caribbean and the Panama Canal. At this point, the Atlantis Queen is considerably off-course. She's supposed to be headed due south, toward Gibraltar and the Mediterranean."

"I assume attempts have been made to contact both vessels," Barton said.

"Of course, sir. There's been no response so far."

"Then we need to intercept those ships at sea," Collins said.

Rubens nodded. Collins was not his favorite person. They'd actually once been lovers, a bit of ancient history on which he did his best not to dwell. As Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA, Collins had often targeted the NSA's Desk Three as an asset that properly should have fallen under her jurisdiction. So far, Rubens had managed to fend off her ambitious attempts to gain control of his department, but he remained cautious in his dealings with her.

At the moment, though, she seemed to be siding with him, making him wonder what she was up to. He was glad to have her support, though.

"One of the vessels that responded to the Ishikari SOS," Rubens continued, "is the Ark Royal, a Royal Navy aircraft carrier. She's still about eighty miles from the sinking, but her skipper has agreed to deploy a couple of Harriers to check on the Sandpiper They may at least establish visual contact, even if the ships' radios are out." He checked his watch. "They should be over the Sandpiper and the Adantis Queen within the next hour.

"It also seems we have a possible agent in place on board the Queen. Quite serendipitous, actually. We're making attempts now to get in electronic contact with her."

"An agent?" Collins asked. "One of yours?"

"Indirectly. She's GCHQ, which means — "

"Which means she works for one of the NSA's subsidiaries," Collins said with a throaty chuckle. "Yes, we know."

Not quite true, Rubens thought, but close enough to the truth that he let the barb pass. "She happens to be aboard the cruise ship as part of another operation," Rubens continued. "If we can make contact with her, we may be able to get some direct intelligence on what's happening on those ships.

"If the Atlantis Queen or the Sandpiper or, as seems probable at this juncture, both ships have been hijacked," Rubens continued, "her intelligence may be invaluable. We do need to begin making contingency plans."

"Meaning a military response?" Wehrum asked. "Both of these ships are British. It seems to me the responsibility for any type of response should lie with them."

"Maybe so," Rubens said. "The NSA gathers intelligence. It does not set foreign policy, nor does it carry it out. However" he added forcefully as Wehrum began to reply, "half of the passengers on board the Atlantis Queen are American citizens, and it is our responsibility to protect them from hostile forces no matter where they are. We also have a treaty obligation to do whatever is necessary to safeguard the cargoes of those plutonium transport ships. At the very least, we're going to need to work closely with the British government on this one, making our military response assets available."

"If we're the ones to go in," Prendergast said, "it means the SEALs."

"Either the SEALs," Rubens said, "or Black Cat."

"Black Cat?" Prendergast said, white eyebrows arching. "What's that?"

v "Combat Assault Team — 'CAT.' A counterterrorist unit operating out of Desk Three and the NSA," Rubens said. "It's new."

Very new. More than once in the past couple of years, U. S. Navy SEAL units had assisted NSA operators in covert military missions in remote areas, including a recent one on the Arctic ice cap. The SEALs were unparalleled at getting into hard-to-reach places without being seen, carrying out their mission, and extracting again, often before the enemy knew they'd even been there. Not long after the op against the Russians in the far Arctic, Rubens had pushed through a Deep Black program called Black Cat — the "Cat" portion of the name suggested by the counterterrorism, or "CT," nature of their mission as well as by the term "combat assault team." A highly classified number of active-duty SEALs and Army Delta operators had been seconded to the NSA, still drawing military pay but serving with and under Agency personnel. For the past six months they'd been training with combat-experienced NSA operators, including Charlie Dean and Lia DeFrancesca. Black Cat Bravo was based at Pawtuxet River, Virginia, and was under the command of Lieutenant Richard Taylor, the SEAL officer with whom Dean had deployed in the Arctic. Black Cat Alpha was based at the 'phib base in San Diego.

While the budgetary battles over Black Cat continued both within the Pentagon and at NCTC headquarters in northern Virginia — critics of the program insisted it wastefully duplicated already existent combat units such as the SEAL teams themselves — the unit promised to provide Desk Three with a tremendously valuable and powerful tool. The NSA gathers intelligence, he'd told them. It does not set foreign policy, nor does it carry it out. Right…

Sometimes, though, to carry out its more dangerous or complex missions the NSA needed something a bit more specialized and a bit more hard-hitting than a com-wired agent with a handgun. The important point was that with its own paramilitary force on tap, there would be fewer problems getting a clean interface between Desk Three and the pointy end of the stick. Clear communications were vital in any covert operation, and more than one major op — Eagle Claw, the failed mission to rescue American hostages in Iran in 1980, was a rather obvious example — had ended in disaster in part when communications broke down between rival services.

Rubens completed his presentation and took a few more questions from the group, ending the briefing with the suggestion that Desk Three begin exploring plans for inserting a covert team onto both the Pacific Sandpiper and the Atlantis Queen. Two Black Cat teams of about six men each might be able to gather intelligence about what was actually happening on those vessels and, if the decision was made to take them down, would already be in place.

"Your suggestion is noted, Mr. Rubens," Wehrum said, leaning back in his leather chair. "Thank you for the presentation."

And Rubens was dismissed.

He was gathering up his notes and replacing them in his briefcase when he sensed movement beside him. "Oh, hello, Debra," he said as Collins drew near. "Bill."

"So… why were you being nice to me this morning?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were actually supporting me there on a couple of points."

She made a face. "Despite what you seem to believe, Bill, we are on the same side."

"Sometimes it's a bit hard to keep that in mind," he replied. He was surprised at the strength, even now, of his anger at this woman. It had been years, but once she'd betrayed their relationship, their friendship, to advance her own agenda…

The memory still burned.

It was necessary to keep up the facade, at least, of professionalism. But he would also keep watching his back.

"I just thought you should know, Bill," she told him, "that there will be no Black Cat op on this one."

"Indeed? So the Agency is employing psychics now, to read the future?"

"No, but I can read the weather vane. The Sandpiper situation was included in this morning's pickle. The President is inclined to allow the Brits to handle this one."

The "pickle" was the old name for the President's Intelligence Check List, or PICL, a ten-page newsletter prepared by the CIA each night listing the top five or six intelligence developments of interest to the President and a few other high-level personnel, including DIRNSA, Rubens' boss. The system had changed oyer the years and was now an internal Web page supposedly routed through the NCTC, but insiders still referred to the Agency's intelligence briefs as "pickles" and to the CIA itself as "the pickle factory."

"The British?" Rubens said. "Why?"

"They're closer, for one thing. They have an aircraft carrier less than a hundred miles from those ships. Our closest carrier battle groups are in Norfolk and in the Med, four days away, at best. The ships are both British-flagged. And, frankly, if those ships have been hijacked, the President would rather someone else fell on his face right now."

"I see."

"A word to the wise, Bill. Don't make waves."

Rubens considered this as he checked out past the various security checkpoints on his way to the underground White House garage. The current administration was coming under a lot of fire in the news media, lately. The energy crisis, the banking and global monetary crises, the unbearably slow ongoing extraction from Iraq and Afghanistan all had carried over from the last administration into this one, leaving scars and, worse, a bureaucratic tendency at every level of government not to do anything that might be construed as yet another failure in either foreign or domestic policy.

A hostage rescue was always a high-risk proposition, with a terrible possibility of innocents being killed, if not by their terrorist captors, then by so-called friendly fire as the hostage rescue team stormed in. The more hostages there were, the likelier it was that casualty figures would be unacceptably high. Even a successful rescue might expect a 5 percent casualty rate among the hostages. With something like 3,400 civilians at risk, 5 percent was 170 people dead and wounded.

And if the rescue turned into a clusterfuck like Eagle Claw…

Yeah. No wonder the President wanted someone else on point this time.

But Desk Three, Rubens decided, would begin preparing for a hostage rescue anyway. The one thing they could not afford now was to be caught unprepared.

"Yeah, now this is more like it!" James Petrovich said, his eye pressed up close to the LED screen of his camera. "I think I love my job."

"Feeling warmer, yet?" Fred Doherty asked with a sour smile.

"Oh, yeah! Big-time."

"Unfortunately, we won't be able to use the footage. Damn her!"

The two of them were again on the Deck Twelve Terrace overlooking the Atlantean Grotto Pool area. An hour earlier, Terry Carter had text-messaged Doherty on his cell phone — the Queen had her own cell network on board, since they were well out of range of shore-based systems when they were at sea — with the news that Gillian Harper would be sunbathing at the pool.

Once again, Doherty and Petrovich had trekked up to the terrace area overlooking the Grotto Pool. The sun was shining now, though there were still banks of clouds visible to the south, and the air was considerably warmer now. Gillian Harper had arrived right on cue, wearing an almost nonexistent bikini… then promptly removed the top and stretched out on her back on a deck chair, fully and magnificently displayed for the camera looking down on her from above as she began rubbing herself down with suntan lotion.

"Quit bitching, boss," Petrovich said. "Carter said he wanted her to get more exposure!"

"Yeah, but I think he meant something we could air on TV."

"Not a problem. It^ll be late-night airtime. We'll just drop some pixilation over her titties. Blur 'em right out."

There were a handful of other sunbathers, and two or three other women had gone topless as well. It was not unusual, Doherty knew, for cruise ships to designate one of their pools — usually on an upper deck where they were not in full view of staterooms or public areas where there might be children present — as a topless area, or even as clothing optional, at least during certain hours. European cruise lines, especially, were far more relaxed about such things than American lines. There would be Ship's Security present in the Atlantean Grotto lounge, he knew, tactfully steering families with children or fully dressed male sightseers elsewhere.

Personally, Doherty didn't care if Harper ran around the ship stark naked. She did have a reputation to uphold in that department, after all. But right now he wanted useable footage for CNE, and the self-centered little exhibitionist just wasn't cooperating.

He'd need to text Carter back about this one.

Odd. A couple of people — they looked like teenaged boys, eighteen or nineteen, perhaps, though they could have been a couple of years older — had just emerged from the Grotto Restaurant almost directly beneath Doherty's camera position. They wore shorts, T-shirts, and sandals… not exactly out of place at the poolside but not exactly in place, either.

"Where the hell is Security?" he asked aloud. The two kids had wandered over to the starboard rail and were leaning against it, but they weren't watching the ocean. Instead, they'd turned and were watching Harper, grinning and making suggestive motions with their hands. After a few moments, one of them pulled a cell phone from his pocket, punched in a number, and started talking into it.

"Security's probably watching the show on their TV monitors," Petrovich said.

"No," Doherty said. "They should have someone present to make sure female sunbathers don't get gawked at. Something's not right."

"Ah, they're probably just keeping a low profile. You worry too much, boss."

"Worrying is my job."

Two more teenaged boys emerged from the restaurant beneath the terrace and, a moment later, three more came out onto the terrace from the steps aft. They were laughing and joking with one another until they saw the camera crew. "Hey, man!" one said with a distinctly Midwest American accent as he leaned against the terrace rail. "You guys sure got yourselves good seats!"

"How'd you guys get past the guards?" Doherty asked.

"Guards?" the kid said, genuinely puzzled. "What guards?"

A hell of a way to run a cruise ship, Doherty thought. This was the sort of thing that could end in lawsuits — privacy violations, indecent exposure, and even corruption of minors charges.

Or were the Europeans really that free and easy about casual social nudity?

"Wrap it up, Pet," he said. "We've got all we can use, here."

Doherty was curious. He wanted to find someone in Security and ask what the hell was going on.

He heard thunder in the distance and turned. Off to the northeast, a pair of tiny black specks winged in low above the water.