The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 30: Nikahd Takes the Helm

Slade stifled a curse. His ‘vanilla mission’ had taken a turn for the worse. Running up the gangway and lining the deck were several hundred Iranian troops. He recognized their black uniforms and green checkered schmaugs: the Republican Guard, the jihadists, the maddest of the mad.

A crane was busy loading a very large container in an empty hold. Captain Fletcher was angry. “What the Hell are they loading on my ship and why are all these troops here? I’m carrying sand for a frigging zoo — sand — what’s this all about?”

“Do not worry captain, everything is fine, but we will need your ship for an ulterior mission. We will leave as soon as possible, in fact here is the harbor pilot,” Nikahd smiled as an Iranian naval officer entered the bridge. The officer saluted. Nikahd only nodded. He turned back to Captain Fletcher.

“I suggest you get down to the business of leaving port. The sooner you do this the better it will be for you and your very lovely wife.”

“My wife?” Captain Fletcher said hesitantly.

The insincere voice of Colonel Nikahd dripped with evil intent. He laughed and said, “Should you not cooperate I will simply have my officer take your ship. I shall of course kill you Captain Fletcher, something that no doubt you are ready for. But are you ready for what will become of the lovely Eva?” He paused to let that sink in. “There is only one of her and I have so many very passionate men!”

He laughed wickedly.

“Whatever you need,” Fletcher told him quickly. “We can be under way in fifteen minutes.”

“Excellent, Captain Fletcher. I knew you were a reasonable man! First then, I wish you to muster your crew on deck here below the bridge.

There was no reason to refuse Nikahd.

. “All hands report to the aft deck! Repeat, all hands report to the aft deck.”

Within ten minutes fifty men were gathered beneath the bridge. The Iranians gathered there as well in two ordered ranks. Colonel Nikahd appeared and addressed the multinational crew in English.

“I am Colonel Nikahd! You are now under my command. My first order is for you all to surrender your cell phones and any other device on your person which could be used for communication!”

Most of the men complied. Some informed the Iranians they didn’t have the cell phones on them or they were in their quarters. Nikahd had every man searched.

Seven of the fifty were found to have cell phones or other devices on them. Nikahd had these men separated from the rest and lined up against the port rail.

Slade had enough familiarity with the jihadists to know what was about to happen. He called Director Gann and apprised him of the changing situation. Everyone was watching the port rail as the Iranians gunned down the hapless seamen, shooting them with a flurry of AK-47 fire.

The Iranians laughed, grabbing the bodies and tossing them overboard. A few of the stricken men were still alive when they hit the water.

When the slaughter was over, all Slade could say was a caustic, “Well that’s a typical jihadist response!”

Nikahd had the remaining men marched down into the aft hold directly beneath the bridge. It was the smallest of the ship’s holds, meant for miscellaneous cargo. Apparently the Iranians would run the ship. The only value of the crew was as hostages; a very temporary value at that.

Slade spent the remainder of the day playing cat and mouse. The Iranians searched the ship thoroughly. They collected all of the crews cloths, books, computers — everything — and dumped all of it overboard. Another couple of crewmembers were shot. The Iranians carried them out of the hold and tossed them overboard.

Director Gann took Mertzl’s arm and simultaneously cast a glance at FBI Director MacCloud. They convened together apart from Carrabolla, who eyed them suspiciously.

Mertzl was furious. “The Key West has them, they have them dead to rights! How can the president not see that?”

“We need hard evidence; evidence the president can’t refute,” MacCloud said. “Everything points to this being the fulcrum of something big. The mosques are being sent messages to prepare for a great event on the anniversary of Nine-Eleven. This has to be part of it.”

“We just checked the cargo of the Galaxus,” Gann told them.

“And?”

“Sand, nothing but innocuous silicates. It’s preparing to leave Bandar Abbas as we speak.”

“I’ll bet a star that the sub’s going to rendezvous with it.”

MacCloud shook his head. “All of our satellites are glued to the Atlas. We’re blind thirty miles away from that ship.”

“The damn Iranians are going to make the switch right in front of us and we won’t be able to see it,” Mertzl growled.

“I have a man on the Galaxus,” Gann told them. “He’s going to stay put and let us know what’s going on.”

“Good! The Key West will continue to shadow the midget sub. By the time the Atlas gets to Abu Dhabi we’ll know whether the sub has the nuclear material or not.”

Now all they could do was wait.

They didn’t have to wait long.

“Director!” an aide interrupted. “We have an urgent communique from our operative in Bandar Abbas.”

“Slade?”

“Yes sir,” he said.

“Jeremiah Slade; the man who murdered President Ataturk’s nephew?” Carrabolla heard the exchange and she grimaced.

“Yes young Turgot, who died in the company of his ISIS and Al Qaeda heroes,” the director told her, as close to being overtly angry as he ever showed.

“He was a boy, a Human Being,” she responded incredulously. The director was about to speak, but she interrupted, asking with a sneer, “Did your precious Slade find contraband on the freighter?”

“No, just sand,” the director admitted. “So far Soekarno’s story checks out.”

“Oh my God,” Carrabolla exclaimed with mock panic. “Sand? Say it isn’t so!”

The director shook his head, taking the iPad. The director looked at it. Seeing Slade’s face, he frowned. “Report Agent Slade?”

“Sorry to bother you so soon, sir, but the situation has changed. The Galaxus has been commandeered by the Iranian Republican Guard. Hold on, I better let you see what’s going on.” Slade’s picture disappeared and the deck of the Galaxus replaced it. Iranian soldiers were lining up the crew. The image zoomed in on a particular figure. He was a tall man in uniform with a short beard and a craggy, pock marked face.

“Our old friend Colonel Nikahd!” Director Gann said. He nodded to the console operator who put the feed on the big screens.

“Sir, you can bet Colonel Nikahd isn’t here to escort sand! We are leaving Bandar Abbas at this time. Whoa, I was afraid of this, here we go,” he said in a growl, turning the camera to the rail.

There were seven sailors who were being herded by the Iranians to the rail. Slade zoomed in. The sailors were terrified, but it didn’t last long. The four Iranian soldiers lined them on the rail and backed off. Without warning their AK-47’s barked.

There was a gasp in the room, led by Carrabolla, as the seven sailors crumpled. Four of them stayed still, lying on the deck or draped over the rail. Three were still moving. The Iranians didn’t waste any bullets on them; instead, they unceremoniously dumped them over the side.

“Typical jihadist response!” Slade commented.

“Oh my God!” Carrabolla said.

“Don’t fret Ms. Carrabolla,” Gann said icily, “perhaps the president can explain this to you since he understands these people so well.”

Mertzl laughed in a grisly way. “Why don’t you get your friends at the EPA to go after the Iranians for polluting the gulf?”

“Slade, stay out of sight; stay out of trouble. Keep me posted!” The director cut the connection and turned to Carrabolla, his voice growing increasingly callous, “Why would Colonel Nikahd, who just met with the president’s personal envoy Freddy Waters, commandeer the Champion Galaxus if not to rendezvous with the midget sub and take the Uranium? Do you still think nothing is going on?”

Biting her lip, Carrabolla obviously realized that the intelligence agencies had made the connection between the White House and the Iranians. That could be damning for the next election if the Iranians were shown to be lying. If that came out it wouldn’t matter how much money the president raised. Fortunately, the president was convinced, and so she was convinced, that the Uranium was still on the freighter — it had to be.