The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 25: Introducing the World to Taqiyya

Under the bright lights of the Bandar Abbas dockyard three military trucks drove down the docks. They were under escort by a dozen troop trucks loaded with soldiers as well as half a dozen armored personnel carriers. Following the ochre vehicles were the horribly flippant ‘baby blue’ of the self-obsessed and impotent United Nations. The convoy stopped next to an open hulled ship.

The ship’s silhouette was that of a small albeit normal looking freighter, but instead of a deck and cargo hatches the hull was open to the keel and creased along the bottom. The bottom of the hull was actually a huge clamshell door. In practice, rocks would be loaded into the hull and then dropped with great precision on the sea bottom, creating an artificial reef or harbor breakwater, whatever the client desired.

Tonight the ship would transport only one hundredth its normal cargo, but it was a very precious and dangerous cargo.

Under the blaze of the dockyard lights three large containers were uncovered. Inspectors from the United Nations followed Iranian scientists up to the pallets and they examined the containers. Geiger counters were inserted in special breeches to measure the radiation levels of the materials within the containers. The weight of the trucks themselves was taken before the cargo was removed.

The examination was a careful and lengthy process. After an hour the cranes lifted the containers one at a time from the trucks. The inspectors noted the weight of the containers and made their calculations. The radiation levels on the inside of the containers had to match the expected levels of a ton of enriched Uranium 235. The weight of the containers had to match the weight of the Uranium plus the weight of the shielded container. The final calculation was a measure of external radiation levels — some of it always escaped — the Geiger count had to be consistent with a ton of enriched Uranium 235 secured inside that particular container. Everything matched.

The holier than thou UN inspectors nodded gravely, allowing the press to interview them, ensuring the reporters knew just how important they were, how important their job was and how essential it was that the UN carry out these kinds of inspections in Iran. Inevitably they added that no one, no one, should be outside the purview of the United Nations. It would be to the betterment of the world that they conduct these same inspections in Israel and the United States, so they said, taking a swipe at the two ‘colonial powers’ of their flawed world.

It appeared for all intents and purposes that the Iranians were playing the game by the rules. The reporters from some networks crowed in triumph, while others were at the very least cautiously optimistic that this might actually be a step in the right direction.

The nuclear containers were loaded onto pallets in the belly of the freighter. They were left uncovered for the short trip across the Straits of Hormuz so Western satellites could maintain a constant vigil. An hour later the ship pulled out of the harbor. The harbormaster departed the bridge and went over the side to his launch. At the harbor exit a dozen Iranian naval vessels escorted the freighter west to Abu Dhabi.

Captain Mustafa of the Iranian Navy piloted the freighter through the Straits of Hormuz. It was one of the demands Iran made of the Security Council and the company was only too glad to comply considering the amount of money the Iranians agreed to pay in order to lease the ship, behind the scenes of course.

Everything went according to the press plan. In live feeds across the Western world the press had a party atmosphere. It was markedly different in the bridge of the Atlas. Captain Mustafa was grave, checking, always checking that things were right. His crew had much to do and little time to do it. Although the trip was short it was the most important moment in their careers. At Midnight he looked to his first officer. “Is everything prepared?”

“We are ready sir,” he replied, looking at their American invented, Chinese manufactured GPS system. “We are approaching the coordinates.”

“Binoculars,” the captain asked, and one of the men handed him a pair of German made binoculars. “Let’s find our little friends. Helmsman steady as she goes.”

“Aye sir.”

The captain and the first officer scanned the dark waters ahead. “Time!”

“Twenty-three hundred hours, fifty five minutes and thirty seconds sir!”

They kept scanning. Every few moments the captain asked the time. When the time approached and passed midnight he became audibly nervous. “Where is he? He’s late!”

“I don’t know,” the first mate replied, perturbed.

The captain lowered his glasses, squinting out into the night. “Time!”

“Zero hours and four minutes, twenty-three seconds!”

“Damn!”

“Captain!” the first officer exclaimed. “Twenty degrees to port; I see it!”

The captain trained his glasses on a hardly to be seen speck of light appearing and disappearing against the black waters. “That’s him, he’s late and a half kilometer off, but’s thank the Prophet he’s there. Signal him!” The captain went to the control panel and rang the engine room. “Start the operation!”

The engines slowed and the smokestack began pumping out thick black smoke. The captain went out on deck, looking up at the gathering cloud. When it reached a level of opacity that blotted out the stars he nodded to the team of men waiting for his order.

They ran down into the hold and activated airbladders built into the pallets of the three cargo containers. Air hissed and the bladders billowed around the cargo containers. Once the men were out of the cargo hold the captain returned to the bridge.

The first officer reported, “The Rahman is beginning its approach. Our support vessels are calling us.”

“Tell the destroyers we are having engine problems. We request their assistance. Make ready to tow.”

“Yes sir,” he said, beginning the busy work of a ship in distress.

The captain was unconcerned. Taking hold of a large lever on the control panel he pulled it back. The whine of hydraulic motors and the groan of steel drowned out every other sound. In the hold the two huge clamshell doors in the bottom of the ship opened. In the normal course of the ship’s duties they opened so as to drop tons of rock onto the ocean floor, thereby building artificial reefs and breakwaters. In this case they opened to the sea. The three containers with the enriched Uranium settled into the water, secured by ropes but now floating on the ocean.

The crew dragged the containers to the bow of the ship and held them there. The containers didn’t protest; they stayed there, bobbing sedately. For a few minutes that’s all that happened.

The ship’s crew fell silent, waiting with anticipation, peering into the dark waters of the hold. Finally something appeared, a black stalk pierced the water and rose about two meters above the surface, but it was close to the side of the hold — very close.

A dull metallic clang rang over the ship. It shuddered.

“Idiot!” the captain breathed. “He hit the ship!”

The stalk sank back down into the depths.

Turning to a team of six men wearing wetsuits he motioned them angrily into the water. They frogmen entered the hold. After getting into the water the deckhands threw lines to the frogmen. Catching the lines the frogmen descended into the darkness. Flashlight beams cut the black water.

A few minutes later the frogmen emerged and shouted directions to the deckhands. The men on the starboard side began winching in their lines. The frogmen watched the progress of the work, finally signaling the deckhands on the port side to operate their winches.

The frogmen directed the forward operator to start his winch and then gave direction the aft operator. Slowly a narrow black mass rose from the depths. It was half as long as the hold, a narrow torpedo shape with a trashcan shaped conning tower amidships: a midget sub. On its aft deck were three cargo containers identical to the three containers now floating in the freighter’s hold.

The hatch to the tower opened and a man popped out. Two more followed, crowding the small conning tower. With a great deal of yelling and manipulating the winches moved the midget sub to the center of the hold. When it was in place the frogmen activated container’s air bladders and secured them with ropes. Then they unlatched them from the subs decking.

The containers bobbed to the surface and the frogmen moved them aside. The old containers were switched for the new ones. It was a seemingly simple process, but between the numbers of men, ropes and floating containers it quickly became confused. The captain of the ship and the captain of the sub shouted incessantly, and finally they got the containers swapped.

With the frogmen holding the containers in place on the deck of the sub the captain ordered the dive tanks blown. A hiss of air could be heard. Bubbles rose to the surface as did the midget sub. The containers settled to the sub’s deck and were deflated and lashed down.

With the sub’s deck now fully above water the sub captain and his engineer climbed out of the conning tower and onto the deck to inspect the damage caused when he struck the freighter. Squatting on the rounded hull, they looked with concern at what appeared to be a long dent or gash.

The captain of the freighter went down to the deck. As his men secured the containers he yelled down, “How bad is it?”

The sub captain looked up and yelled back, “We’re leaking. It’s not bad but we’ll be limited to periscope depth,” he replied. “We need to get going fast. We need the darkness.”

“Well why did you run into my ship in the first place?”

“You try berthing that tub blindfolded then you’ll understand what we were attempting! Do you know how many times I have done this — once!”

“All right, all right,” the freighter captain relented. “Get going then and may the Prophet be with you!”

The sub captain and his companion climbed the conning tower and disappeared into the midget sub. The frogmen cast off the sub’s lines. One man patted the side of the conning tower three times. The frogmen jumped off the sub and swam to the ladders out of the holds. As they clambered up the hold the sub began to sink into the ocean.

When it was gone the captain ordered the replacement containers floated to the center of the hold and then he closed the doors. The hydraulic motors whined and the gears turned. With a crunch and groan they closed. Three containers sat in the hold just like before.

Turning back to the sea, the freighter captain waited until the periscope of the sub popped up out of the water a hundred meters off the port bow. That part of the mission done, the captain turned to cleaning up the ship.

In the White House situation room the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Marine General Mertzl, was staring at the satellite feed with a scowl on his all too square face. He muttered loud enough for the entire table to hear it, “They’re up to something!”

National Security Advisor Carrabolla was twenty years the general’s junior with a curly mop of blonde hair and a choir girl demeanor. She sighed, “You always think the worst of people general.”

“You think when we have three plus tons of near weapon grade Uranium at risk this is just another political campaign?” he shot back, reminding Carrabolla the reason she got the job had nothing to do with her foreign policy experience. “This stuff is enough for a bunch of atomic bombs or a whole lot of trouble if they’re made into dirty bombs. This is real world stuff!”

“That’s why we have our Navy ships shadowing the Iranians,” she reminded him. “They’re not going to pull anything while our ships are there.”

“They already are,” he told her. “They’re doing it right in front of us. Why do you think the freighter has stopped and laid a smoke screen over its location? It’s night. Even our low light satellites won’t pick up any detail now and our Infra-Red satellite cameras are being blinded by the flares they’re sending up.”

“Maybe the ship is in distress; did you think of that?” she retorted. “We are monitoring their radio frequencies. The Iranian warships are moving in to assist.”

“And you trust these bastards?” he shot back, incredulous. Before she could answer, he told her, “These people love your candy ass view of the world. That means they can do whatever they want. The bottom line is this: in my professional opinion forged over the last forty years of service to this country, I say they’re up to something and the president should be informed; he should be here monitoring this in the situation room.”

“He’s on a fund raiser in Texas,” she told him emphatically.

“Since when has greasing the palms of fat cats taken precedence over an international crisis?” he asked testily.

“The wheels of government turn whatever other countries do general,” she retorted.

He laughed, and asked, “So where in the Constitution does it say that fund raising takes precedence over — anything?”

“Would you say that if the president was here general?” she challenged him.

“I wouldn’t have to say it; he’d be where he was supposed to be!” the general shot back.

Carrabolla looked indecisive. She wasn’t happy; but the general had a point. “The president has a responsibility,” she started, but the general cut her off.

“He has a responsibility to do the job he was elected to do! He is in his second term. There is no need for him to campaign endlessly.”

“If he loses the mid-terms, if he loses the Senate he can’t do his job,” she argued.

“So the government just stops, is that what you’re telling me, Ms. Carrabolla?” he chided, grimacing in a truly frighteningly way. When she hesitated in responding, he continued his point. “Listen to me: the Iranians are bald face lying to the world; which isn’t so unusual excepting this time it involves three tons of enriched Uranium. We know the Iranians have met with Al Qaeda; we know the Iranians have met with ISIS; do you really want to see those bastards get their hands on that much Uranium?”

“I don’t see the connection general,” she replied automatically, immediately realizing she’d said the wrong thing.

“You don’t realize the connection between three terrorist organizations — all rivals — meeting with each other and then lo and behold three tons of Uranium goes missing?”

“There is no Uranium missing,” she replied patiently. “We haven’t heard anything from the Iranians that would leave us to believe anything nefarious is going on.”

“You blindly trust them?” he replied emphatically. “Have you ever heard of Taqiyya?”

“I’m unfamiliar with the term,” she lied.

The general laughed bitterly, “Well it’s the use of falsehood to further ones purposes for the sake of Islam; rather like the political lies told to sell healthcare or target your political foes using the IRS or the attack on Benghazi.”

“All right general you’ve made your point,” Carrabolla cut him off. “At this point I don’t see anything that would give us any indication of alarm; this is a glitch, these things happen. This isn’t the first ship with engine trouble.”

“Well then you won’t mind if I send in some ships to lend assistance,” General Mertzl smiled, turning to Admiral Sampson. “Bob, who do you want to send in to lend a hand to our poor unfortunate Iranians?”

“I have four destroyers and a couple of guided missile cruisers that can be at the freighter in fifteen minutes,” he replied calmly. “The Nimitz is ready to put two flights of super-hornets armed with harpoons overhead in five; with full fighter CAP in case any ‘unfriendlies’ come our way. Just give me the word Frank.”

“Testosterone driven Neanderthals!” Carrabolla cursed under her breath.

“What was that Ms. Carrabolla?”

“I said you are exceeding your authority,” she replied coldly.

“Ms. Carrabolla only one man in this country has the power to countermand my orders — one man — and he’s on the way to a fund raiser,” the general answered tersely. “I have a duty to safeguard this operation. Those are my orders. I will accomplish them as I see fit.”

“I think you are unnecessarily provoking the Iranians,” Carrabolla argued. “As the head of the NSA I object strenuously to this course of action!”

“Ms. Carrabolla, you and your NSA ideologues don’t know shit from shinola,” he told her. “You’re all political hacks. If you listened to your NSA professionals they’d tell you you’re full of crap!”

“You leave me no choice but to call the president!” she threatened.

General Mertzl raised his hands in supplication to a greater power. “Hallelujah! That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do for the last fifteen minutes!”

“That’s what this is all about?”

“Good God in heaven do you have any clue about what’s going on?” he exclaimed. Burying his head in his hands the general took a deep breath before looking back up at her. “I really want to know how you ideologues think; what the Hell goes on in your brains?”

Carrabolla got the distinct impression he’d like to saw the top of her skull off with the knife he undoubtedly carried in his boots and look in to see what festering disease was rotting her brain — all while she was awake.

Angry, she retorted, “The days of bullying other nations is past general. We’re just one of hundreds of nations on this planet; the sooner you realize we’re nothing special the longer your career will last. The days of the last superpower are over.”

The general glowered at her. The situation room was clearly divided between the military, the CIA and the FBI and the other agencies, President Oetari’s ideologues. It was a simmering conflict of distrust, with one side firmly believing the political zealots were bordering on treason and then other side convinced that evolution had passed the warmongers by.

Carrabolla made the call. President Oetari was put out.

“You do realize that I have a very important fund raiser tonight,” he reminded her over the speaker phone. “It’s not as if I can cancel this because the Iranians are veering off the script.”

“Mr. President, we’re talking about the security of over three tons of Uranium 235!” General Mertzl said soberly, barely keeping his tone civil.

“The UN’s keeping an eye on it, why do I want to go and trample on their turf?” the president replied. Before a stunned Carrabolla or Mertzl could respond the president cut them off. “Listen, I’m doing the party’s business tonight; that’s the people’s business. Iran has to comply with the UN agreement — they signed it — so as long as they comply I don’t care how they do it. I’ve given the UN my ships to shadow the Iranians; what more do you want me to do? We are not the world’s policeman. As far as I’m concerned the subject is closed — good night!”

The president hung up.

Mertzl was seething. He echoed the president’s comment in disbelief, “His ships; his ships! They are warships of the United States and he’s just handed them over to the United Nations? Did he really just say that?”

For once Ms. Carrabolla was speechless.

An officer approached General Mertzl. She wore the dress whites of the US Navy. She handed Mertzl her iPad, pointing to the message, “From the Los Angeles class attack sub Key West. She’s shadowing the Iranian convoy.”

Her eyes raised and met Carrabolla. They was no gender fraternity there — none.

Mertzl looked at the message and then at Carrabolla. He said nothing.

His silence unnerved the NSA chief enough for her to finally blurt, “What is it?”

“The game has changed,” he told her emphatically, pounding the table with his open hand. The sharp, insistent sound made Carrabolla jump. Everyone in the situation room looked at the general with surprise. The room fell silent. “You need to call the president back and get him here right now!”