The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 31: The Shell Game

Captain Bashir looked with concern at the depth gauge and then at the spray of water coming from the ruptured weld in the seam of the pressure hull. The depth gauge read ten meters. The leak came from behind a patch the engineer tried to apply to the crack.

“Can the bilge pumps keep up with it?”

The first officer and engineer shook his head, telling him, “Not for long. In another five minutes we will have taken on so much water that the engines and hydroplanes can’t keep us from sinking. We need to surface now while we still can.”

“We’re not outside the ring of American escorts yet,” Captain Bashir said firmly.

“Can we at least go to periscope depth?” the first officer pleaded, fear in his eyes. “It doesn’t seem like much but the water pressure is that much less. The pumps might be able to handle it.”

“Then we risk being run over by an American warship,” Bashir remarked.

“We cannot jeopardize the mission!” the navigator interjected.

“The mission will fail if the boat sinks!” the first officer countered.

“Enough!” Bashir snapped. The two officers stayed silent, waiting on his decision. He took a deep breath of consideration before announcing, “We cannot remain where we are and we cannot surface. Therefore we will proceed to periscope depth and trust to Allah to protect us until we get through the ring of escorts — hopefully undetected.”

“Surely Allah will not abandon this sacred mission,” the navigator said boldly.

“Not unless we are so stupid that Allah refuses to recognize us!” the first officer muttered, glancing darkly at the navigator.

They ascended to four meters. Water kept leaking from behind the patch but it was not nearly as much. The first officer reported, “Water level is going down in the bilge. We’re pumping the water into the dive tanks and then blowing them out using compressed air. We should be able to maintain this depth.”

“Can we dive deeper for a limited time if need be?”

The first officer shook his head. “It’s risky. If we do that the seam could burst and then it won’t matter what we do.” He looked at the navigator. “Our sacred mission will rest on the bottom of the Straits of Hormuz.”

Bashir stayed at the periscope, gauging the traffic around them. For a tense hour they altered course first one way and then another, weaving through the escorting ships, trying not to get run over or detected. After the hour was up they had progressed only a few kilometers, but the convoy and its shadow ships passed them by.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Bashir sighed, sweat streaming down his forehead. The crew breathed a sigh of relief.

Without warning the boat heeled over to starboard, rolling so hard that it threw Bashir off his feet and hard into the trim valves of dive tanks. The blow stunned him. He stumbled across the bridge and fell onto the deck, his head swimming. Somewhere in the back of his brain he heard screaming.

Blinking through the blood in his eyes and the confusion in his mind Bashir had the image of the navigator, the zealot of unshakeable jihadist faith, screaming like a little girl. Over his piercing cries was the urgent voice of his first officer yelling, “We’re sinking!”

In half an hour the Galaxus was outside the breakwater. Fletcher turned to Nikahd. “Where to now Colonel?”

Nikahd paused. Then a bright flash shown in the darkness to the southwest. After around thirty seconds a low rumbling boom rolled over the waters. The colonel was busy setting a frequency in the ship’s radio. He looked up and pointed in the direction of the fading glow. “Set your course towards the light.”

They ran for several hours before a call came over the ship’s radio. “Abd al-Rahman hero of the Umayyad! Abd al-Rahman hero of the Umayyad!”

“Go ahead Rahman!” Nikahd answered.

“Request immediate rendezvous!” the urgent voice of Captain Bashir answered. “We are close to sinking with our cargo. We are heavily damaged. We do not have much time!”

“Give me your coordinates!” Nikahd told the Rahman.

The Rahman did so and Nikahd directed Fletcher to proceed there at flank speed. They sailed for another forty minutes, the Galaxus heaving in the seas, her engines straining. At last Fletcher reported that they were nearing the coordinates.

Nikahd placed lookouts at the bow of the ship. Shortly thereafter a light was spotted. In fifteen minutes the huge freighter slowed and pulled alongside the Rahman. The midget sub was barely afloat. The sea was over her deck. The three containers were half submerged.

Quickly, the deckhands from the Galaxus lashed the midget sub to the side of the freighter. The men didn’t know why they were doing it, nor did they have to ask. The scores of Iranian soldiers with AK-47’s trained on them were all they needed to know.

A small deck crane was enough to upload the three containers. They were then lowered into the same hold as the large container loaded by Nikahd. When that was done the hatch was closed.

“What are we going to do about the sub, I can’t drag it to Indonesia. Besides, she won’t stand our towing. Our wake would break her up quick!” Captain Fletcher asked.

Nikahd simply smiled and got on the radio. “Rahman, you have accomplished your mission. You may now return to Bandar Abbas. May the Prophet be with you!”

“No!” came the desperate reply. “We must be fifty kilometers from Bandar Abbas; we’ll never make it!”

“The Prophet will guide you!” Nikahd said firmly and he switched the radio frequency back to the normal frequency used for international waters. Turning to his lieutenant, he said, “Have the men cut the Rahman loose!”

“Yes sir!”

To Fletcher, he said, “You may continue your voyage captain.” Glancing at Eva, he added unnecessarily, “I would keep your lovely wife out of sight, but remember, if you fail to satisfy the needs of my mission she will satisfy the needs of my men — all of them. Do I make myself clear?”

“So I am to set my course for Jakarta as planned?”

“Of course,” Nikahd smiled. “We must get Mr. Soekarno his Iranian sand!”

Captain Bashir ordered, “Full ahead! Give me everything you have! Bow planes forty-five up! Aft planes neutral!”

They’d cut away the lines, a necessity to keep them from fouling in the propeller. Now the Rahman surged forward, her diesel motor throbbing. Still, it was barely enough to keep her from sinking.

“We won’t make Bandar Abbas!” the first officer told the captain.

“I know. Send a distress call. Perhaps someone can reach us in time.”

“Impossible,” the first officer shook his head, pounding on the radio. “The water is shorting out all the electrical components. The radio just died.”

Bashir went to the navigator. He grasped the officer by the shoulder and told him, “Plot me a course to the nearest land. I don’t care where!”

The navigator nodded. Now that their mission was over he was all for survival over dying alone in the ocean. He went over his charts and shouted, “Course zero-two-four! We are nine-point-two kilometers from shore!”

“Helmsman steer heading zero-two-four!” Bashir shouted to the man barely two feet away. “If she can hold together for an hour we may yet live through this!”

Captain Mars aboard the attack sub Key West watched the Galaxus cast the Rahman adrift. “Okay, they’ve transferred the cargo to the freighter. We’ll follow the freighter. Send word to Washington that we believe the Uranium is now on board the freighter Galaxus bound for Jakarta. We will follow the freighter and await further orders.”

Captain Mars shook his head. “I have half a mind to sink that freighter now. With everything that we’ve seen already who knows how long that stuff will remain on that ship!”

As far as the fourth ship in the game was concerned, the Atlas was under tow and as the sun came up the eyes of every intelligence agency and news agency were upon her.

In the situation room, all eyes were glued to the satellite feeds. During the night the freighter was hooked up to a destroyer and put under tow. As it moved out from under the smokescreen it appeared that the cargo was intact. When dawn finally broke over the Straits of Hormuz it became clear that there were three containers in the hold of the freighter. The Atlas would dock in Abu Dhabi in five hours.

“You see general, all of your hand wringing was for nothing,” National Security Advisor Carrabolla gloated. “We put three containers on that freighter and there are still three containers. Where’s your national emergency now? Would you like me to get the president on the phone?”

General Mertzl was conferring with Director Gann, nodding gravely. He looked up at Carrabolla, and said, “There are three containers there all right but are they the same ones?”

“What are you talking about now?” she asked, sipping her latte. It was getting late and she wanted to be home.

The director nodded to an aide. After a few keystrokes two images appeared on the big screen. They were both satellite pictures of the Iranian freighter. The containers were circled. It was obvious that they had moved. “Our analysts at the CIA have concluded that the cargo containers were moved. This is patently impossible for any simple engine malfunction. Each one of those containers weighs over two tons; that includes the lead shielding.”

“If it’s impossible then what’s your point?”

“My point is that something happened,” the director said simply. “I have my suspicions, and General Mertzl’s midget submarine must be checked out. At the very least we need to repeat the entire inspection process for each container when they arrive at Abu Dhabi.”

“What are your suspicions?” Carrabolla asked doubtfully.

The director shrugged, and said, “The Iranians chose this ship because of its hollow hull; it was designed to be loaded with stones and drop them through the bottom of the ship.”

“You think the Iranians dumped their nuclear material on the sea floor?” she said dubiously.

“Not on the sea floor Ms. Carrabolla, on the midget submarine.”

“For what purpose?”

“We’re working on that,” he said.

“Well you keep it up,” she laughed. “As I told the president, this isn’t a James Bond movie. The simple answer is almost always the best.” She pointed at the screen. “What I see is three containers in the before photo and three containers in the after photo. That tells me that those are the same three containers we started with. I don’t need the wild imagination of some submariner whose been cooped up in his boat for months to tell me different.”

“And the inspection by the UN at Abu Dhabi?” the director asked calmly. “The president agreed to it; wouldn’t it simply confirm to the world what you already know? Here’s your chance to shut us up Ms. Carrabolla.”

“The president said we would do that so we will,” she said, nodding. “The president will enjoy roasting your science fiction theories. Maybe you’ll finally learn your lesson. The world’s not full of bad people gentlemen; it’s just full of people — period.”

“Thank you Ms. Carrabolla,” the director said.

As the tow began, Captain Mustafa summoned his first officer to the bridge. “Now that we are out of our smokescreen we will see if we have indeed fooled the Americans.”

“What do you mean captain?”

Mustafa pointed upward. “They will be studying us with their satellites. If they have any doubts as to what has happened we will hear a response. If the ruse worked then we should dock in Abu Dhabi by afternoon.”

An hour later the first mate of the freighter hurried down to the deck, informing the captain of an important message. “You are wanted on the bridge immediately. Colonel Nikahd is on the radio. He says it is urgent.”

The captain waved for the first officer to follow him. As they entered the confines of the bridge he picked up the hand mike, snapping to attention. “Captain Mustafa here sir!”

“Captain, we have a development in the operation,” the voice crackled over the radio. “The American’s have grown suspicious and are requesting that the United Nations inspectors meet you in Abu Dhabi. There they will re-inspect the cargo and ensure that these delays incurred because of the malfunctions on your vessel have not affected the cargo. Do you understand?”

“I do sir,” the captain replied gravely. “We will make preparations.”

“I do not need to ask if you and your men are prepared for this final phase of your operation,” Nikahd said soberly. “This is an important moment in the inevitable ascension of our faith and our people. I expect all will be carried out properly.”

“We will not disappoint you sir!”

“Allah be with you,” Nikahd finished.

“Allahu Akbar!” Captain Mustafa finished.

The first officer looked at Mustafa, mystified. “The inspectors cannot fail to discover that the Uranium is gone,” he said. “These containers are filled with medical waste; they will only pass a cursory inspection.”

“There will be no inspection,” Mustafa informed his officer. “Muster the crew on deck. Colonel Nikahd has given us an opportunity for paradise! This voyage will end the only way it could have.”

“How is that?” the first officer said, still not understanding.

“With martyrdom!”

In the situation room, several hours passed before Carrabolla approached the general and the directors again. She smiled thinly, and said, “The president wasn’t happy but he was willing to call his friend the President of Turkey — they share parenting tips.”

“The President of Turkey is a big supporter of Hamas,” the director said.

“He’s no friend of Israel, that’s for sure,” General Mertzl added.

“The President of Turkey takes a very progressive view of the world,” Carrabolla told them. “He’s a staunch NATO ally.”

“In what way?” General Mertzl asked. “How much help did we get from Turkey in Libya, Iraq, Syria — you name it? They’ve been radicalized, and the president is a sympathizer of terrorists not the West.”

“I do hope you mean the President of Turkey, general,” Carrabolla said. When the general shot a disdainful expression, she added, “Either way your assertion is errant. There’s no greater friend of the United States, and he strongly supports Israel’s right to exist.”

“That’s not what he says,” the director reminded her. “We have extensive incidents on tape of him calling for the destruction of Israel, the Jews and the support of jihad and a worldwide caliphate. You know that, or you should; that’s part of your job isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen those reports,” she sneered. Shaking her curly blonde head. “In my opinion you are taking political rhetoric as policy. There’s a difference. We do that during our own campaigns all the time.”

The general laughed, telling Carrabolla, “Oh yes, the Democrats and Republicans are routinely talking about driving each other into the sea and about how nice and peaceful the people in Hamas, Hezbollah and Al Qaeda are to their neighbors.”

“Your sarcasm is noted general,” Carrabolla replied coldly. “It’s right there with bigotry. Some people consider these groups freedom fighters.”

“Like who?” he demanded.

“Believe what you want Ms. Carrabolla,” the director said, bringing up the latest images from ISIS’s rampage in Mosul. It showed dozens of heads mounted on the fence posts of a bridge. He nodded to the image, telling her, “I think these gentleman would disagree with you if they could.”

“You simply don’t understand that part of the world,” she said. “The president understands these people; he knows what makes them tick. I advise you to watch and learn. The president has a firm handle on the situation; he’s not going to panic the way you are.”

“Panic?” the general echoed with contempt.

“Panic, general,” she asserted with a steadfast expression. “In another few hours the Iranian Uranium will be safely locked away in Abu Dhabi. There will be no funny business, your conspiracy theories will be discredited. In a few weeks, once the Israelis have satisfied their bloodlust by dropping bombs on civilians, things will quiet down.”

At the height of her gloating, there was a strident call from the operations officer. “General, you better come take a look at this! There’s a problem with the Atlas!”

Carrabolla looked up to the satellite feeds to see the Atlas swerving away from its tow ship, the aft end completely engulfed in thick black smoke. As they watched. The ship capsized and sank in a matter of seconds.

“What just happened?” Carrabolla demanded.

“The freighter just blew up Ma’am; it just blew up,” the officer monitoring the convoy reported. “I don’t know what else to say. The Iranians are broadcasting that the freighter struck a mine.”

“Struck a mine?” General Mertzl exclaimed. “They were in the middle of a convoy — under tow — how could they strike a mine?”

“It could, it could happen,” Carrabolla snapped defensively.

The director leaned over the console and brought up the CIA display, ordering the operators to, “Bring up the explosion. Give me a running analysis.”

The screen showed the freighter under tow, nothing out of the ordinary, except, as the analyst reported, “They were heading west to Abu Dhabi at five knots — not unusual for a tow — however, the crew was mustered out on deck.”

“They had nothing to do,” Carrabolla argued. “They were under tow.”

“Actually the crew is quite busy under tow,” the analyst responded. “There are strict maritime procedures for vessels under tow. The crew has a great deal of responsibility; mustering for the captain is not one of them.”

The feed continued and it became clear that the crew responded to whatever the captain was saying, raising their arms in celebration time after time.

“Allahu Akbar!” the director muttered.

“Now you’re grasping at straws,” Carrabolla retorted, albeit nervously.

A blinding flash blanked out the screen. The assembled staff looked on in surprise. It was the director who recovered first.

“A mine wouldn’t flash so brightly,” he muttered. “We’d see a geyser of water, not an explosion.”

“Unless it hit a fuel tank,” Carrabolla interjected.

“Fuel fumes explode, fuel burns,” Mertzl said gravely, shaking his head. “That looked like a magazine going up; only the freighter isn’t carrying ammunition, or rather it shouldn’t be.”

“Could the Uranium have reached critical mass?” Carrabolla speculated.

The military men looked at her with amusement and concern; disturbed that the advisor to the president on national security was so ignorant, doubly so that she’d voice that ignorance.

“Run it back to the point of ignition,” the director said calmly.

The image backed to a point where there was a small pinprick of flame at the stern of the vessel. It erupted through the smokestack and then engulfed the bridge.

“Stop the tape!” the director ordered. He turned to Carrabolla. “The explosion happened at the rear of the ship; in the engine room. When was the last time a mine caught up to a ship; even a ship under tow?”

“They scuttled their own damn ship,” General Mertzl said.

“Why, why would they do that?” the National Security Advisor demanded.

Again the director and the general looked at her with disdain, answering together, “To get rid of evidence! Now it will take weeks to prove they didn’t have the Uranium on board!”

“Look at that, look at the destroyer,” MacCloud noted, running the tape back. “They cast of the tow line just before the explosion. They didn’t want to be afoul of the freighter when she went down — even they knew! Damned sloppy, I’d have thought the Iranians would sacrifice their destroyer for appearances at least!”

Carrabolla stood in stunned silence, but the stares of the military men forced her to action. She took out her phone and called the president.

When President Oetari came on line he wasn’t even attempting to be diplomatic. “Carrabolla, I hired you to take care of international emergencies, not to bother me with them. What is it now?”

“Sir, the Iranian freighter with the Uranium on board has just blown up.” She glanced at the screen with the taped feed. Gann had the crew replay the sequence again. “We’re watching the film of it sink.”

“Did we do it?”

“No sir!”

“What are the Iranians saying?”

Carrabolla was startled by the question, and she stammered, “Immediately after the explosion the Iranians claimed the freighter ran into a mine; however, our preliminary examination of the video suggests,” she hesitated before continuing, taking a deep breath before she did so. “Mr. President, our examination of the video suggests sabotage possibly by the Iranians themselves.”

“That’s not what the Iranians say — they were there — why assume it’s something so farfetched?” the president countered.

“Sir, at this point I don’t think we can,” she hesitated again, and repeated herself, “I don’t think we can trust the Iranians. There’s too much going on. The stakes are far too high.”

“Yes they are Ms. Carrabolla, and I am not about to go rocking the international boat when so much is at stake,” the president replied angrily. “You want me to go and accuse the Iranians of duplicity at a time when the peace of the world is balanced on the edge of a sword — I will not do that!”

“What are your orders Mr. President?” she sighed.

“Begin with lending any and all assistance to the Iranians,” the president told her. “Then have our Ambassador to the United Nations consult with the members of the Security Council. We’ll see where that leads.”

“We’re going to wait on the United Nations?” she asked anxiously. The abandonment of so much authority caught Carrabolla by surprise — not because she hadn’t thought of it, dreamed of it before — but because hitherto, she’d not been so completely troubled by the prospect. Now, with three tons of Uranium missing, she was not so certain that leaving it to the irresolute halls of the United Nations was all that good an idea.

She opened her mouth to speak but the president cut her off. “There you go Carrabolla,” he said curtly. “I expected you to implement that. It’s not so hard. You have to be decisive! Write that down. Now let me get to my fund raiser without any more international emergencies. Problem solved.”

He hung up.

“Problem solved?” the general and the directors exclaimed at once.

“So it seems,” Carrabolla sighed.

The general watched Carrabolla turn and leave, seemingly too embarrassed to continue the discussion. “God help us!” he sighed. With a hard eye he turned back to the Gann, and said, “I’ve got the Key West shadowing that sub. We’ll know pretty soon if they rendezvous.”

“Good, my man on Soekarno’s freighter will keep an eye on the Iranians,” the director told him. “The Iranian military now controls it. How much you want to bet the freighter and the sub cross paths?”

“If that midget sub has those cargo containers on board she can’t go far; they’re not open ocean boats. It makes sense. So the Iranians and Soekarno want the Uranium in Jakarta — right into the hands of Al Qaeda.”

“Your man on the freighter; you left him there?” the general asked.

“It’s a big freighter. He’ll be fine,” the director told his ally. A sudden chill ran down his spine at the thought.

The director instantly regretted his comment.