Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

A surprised look crossed the Russian’s face. “You know that for sure?”

“Heard it with my own ears. I don’t think those guys know I speak Arabic, or they’d be more careful what they say.”

“I am disappointed.” Sorgei shrugged with dejection. “After all the time we spent working together on other projects, now he decides to cheat me out of my money and my life.”

“Disappointed?” Josh asked. “I think this would go a lot farther than disappointment.”

“You are not Russian. You have not lived in Siberia. Disappointment is a way of life for me. It is harsh to live as I have lived.”

“Well, unless you’re ready to die a disappointed man, I suggest that we team up and get out of here.”

Sorgei thought about that for a moment. “I am a man who is willing to take hold of an opportunity,” he said. “Obviously… or I wouldn’t be here now. I sold myself to the highest bidder.”

“Then grab onto this opportunity. My people need to know more about this toxin you’ve developed. I don’t have anything to offer, except a chance to save your life. We have to get out of here, and we need to do it together. Two sets of eyes are better than one during an escape.”

“How do you propose to escape?”

Josh got up and paced around the room. “I’m working on it. Are you with me?”

Sorgei reached out a hand and Josh took it. “Okay, I am with you. Let me know what you want me to do.”

“Just get yourself ready to leave. When I come back tonight, be wearing your best walking shoes and all the clothes you can put on. It’s going to be cold out there. Hide your food in your pockets today.” Josh moved to the window and peered out. Then he removed the board and crawled out through the opening. “Under the cover of darkness will be best. Tonight, during last prayer I’ll be back.” Then he disappeared across the narrow road and behind the tiny house where he was kept as a prisoner.

October 11th – Peshawar, Pakistan

A dusty five-hour drive on dirt roads carved from the barren mountainsides took Husam al Din from the tribal frontier village to the crowded city of Peshawar. He rode in the back seat, shuttled by a driver and protected by an armed bodyguard. His only luggage was a medium-sized carry-on duffle bag that held a few changes of clothing and what appeared to be two well-used black metal flashlights rolled up inside his prayer rug. In the space created by a false floor in the bottom of the duffle, he concealed his dagger.

“At the airport,” the bodyguard said, “you will be watched for. It has been pre-arranged for your carry-on luggage to be inspected and approved by one of our people who is positioned as security.”

From Peshawar International Airport, it would take two days for Husam al Din to travel by a series of flights, first to Karachi then to Calcutta and on to Singapore before the final jump to Manila. His plan was known within al-Qaeda’s upper echelon, and someone, he knew not who, had taken care of all his travel arrangements, documents and airport security issues.

After hours of travel, when they came to a halt in the airport parking lot at Peshawar, the driver turned to him. “To minimize the risk of detection, after you pass through security at this airport, you will de-plane into secure areas at each airport along the route. When you get on the ground, do not leave the secure area, or you will have to pass through security again. The less of that, the better.”

Husam al Din nodded. “I understand. I have brought the Holy Koran to read during layovers, so I will not need to go anywhere.”

“There will be places to buy food and there will be restrooms within the secure area, so you should have everything you need,” the bodyguard said. Then he reached over the seatback and offered his hand to Husam al Din. “Smile at everyone you see. Be friendly and courteous to all the security people. May Allah lead you.”

“And you, my brothers,” al Din said. He opened the car door, got out, put a smile on his face and walked into the airport lobby, duffel bag in hand

October 13th – Manila, Philippines

A hot October squall swept through Manila, rattling the sky with thunder and lightning, and flooding a few of the bustling city streets to ankle depth. Each leg of the trip had been rough, and Husam al Din was thankful to be on the ground. He did not like flying, he decided. If he were to die, he would rather do it without falling from 30,000 feet. He wanted to be more in control of his final destiny than to be a helpless passenger in an airplane that was being ripped apart by a storm.

The other thing he did not like was the heat and thick moist air. For the past six years, he had lived high in the cold, arid mountains of Pakistan, and he was not accustomed to the scalding humidity of a tropical island. Soon enough, I will be dead, and this will not matter , he consoled himself with the thought. With the duffel bag strap slung over his shoulder, he drew his last breath of air-conditioned air and stepped through the door that led onto the sidewalk in front of the airport, haled a cab and slid into the back seat. “Hotel Bali,” he said to the driver, and they sped away, melting into the flow of traffic. Three hours later, bathed and fed and having attended to his evening prayer, he left the hotel, determined to see what city life in Manila was all about.

Even though it was evening, the tropic air was saturated with humidity and he sweat profusely as he made his way through the bustling streets. Dressed in western clothing, his intent was to blend in with the teeming populace. Gone were the black turban and heavy beard. Now, clean-shaven for the first time since he was able to grow hair on his face as a badge of manhood, and wearing blue jeans and a cotton t-shirt, he played the chameleon among people who never suspected his true nature.

Had anyone been watching him, though, the expression on his face would have revealed the deception, as his first exposure to the bright lights and flashy fashions of the modern city at night left him staring with eyes wide and mouth agape. He was as a child of poverty being exposed to his first Christmas tree surrounded by brightly wrapped gifts and knowing that it was all his for the taking. His eyes flicked from side to side, straining to absorb the color and texture of the clothing, city lights, garish advertising signs, and the rushing vehicles. His ears were unaccustomed to the loud music, the noise of people all seeming to talk at once, and laughter that filled the night air. His head buzzed with the overload of activity and motion and glare of lights against the night sky.

But more than anything, it was the women that stunned him. Never had he seen so much of a woman’s body exposed to view – bare shoulders and arms, flowing hair and faces made up with cosmetics, and legs all the way above the knees. At first, he tried to look away, but it was too beautiful to resist, and finally he gave in and stared without blinking, afraid of missing something. The scene rocked his senses. At one and the same moment, he was filled with pulse-racing desire and overwhelmed by a wave of holy disgust.

A short distance from the hotel, he found a grassy park with benches beneath a canopy of trees. In an attempt to calm his racing heart, he sat, closed his eyes and tried to think back to the lessons he learned in the madrassa.

Out of the darkness, a woman’s voice broke his meditation, “May I sit with you?”

He opened his eyes and inhaled sharply when he saw the woman’s bare midriff. Catching his breath, he lifted his gaze to her face. Her full red lips parted and turned slowly up at the corners, showing pearl-white teeth through a perfect smile. Her eyes were blue and round, and they seemed to dance from behind a parted veil of blonde hair. “Are you alone?” she asked.