Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

Even in the muggy heat a cold shiver ran up Husam al Din’s back. The thought of being locked inside a box no larger than a coffin brought back bad memories of the punishment closet in the madrassa, where he was tied up hand and foot and left for twelve hours because he forgot to bring his prayer rug to the mosque. It was a lesson he never had to repeat, but one that locked into his mind a deep fear of enclosed places.

Alicia Gomez noticed the involuntary shiver and the change in his expression. “Is there something bothering you?”

He shook it off, looked her in the eyes and lied, “No, it is nothing.” But his pride was stung by her question. Perhaps she had seen his fear and thought him a coward. The question gnawed at him, and his pride quickly turned to bitterness.

“Come,” she said, “I will show you all the features of this trailer. Light switches are here, and the fan switch is here.” She pointed to the control panels. “The refrigerator is stocked with food and will operate on the oversized 12-volt battery system we installed. Canned and boxed foods are stored beneath the dinette seat. Dishes and utensils are in the cabinets and drawers. We have hidden drinking water beneath the bed in five-liter plastic jugs. The toilet is here.” She pointed into the small enclosed lavatory, “and paper supplies and soap are in the cabinet under the sink. The bed is comfortable. You will have everything you need for the three-week voyage. Any questions?”

“Yes, I have one,” Husam al Din said. “Will there be enough air in the container?”

“A good question. Shipping containers are tight enough to protect against water damage. You wouldn’t believe how big the storm waves can get at sea. And sometimes those waves break over the bow of the ship, so the containers are sealed to protect the cargo. But they are not airtight, so a limited amount of air can get in. If you remain at rest most of the time, your air supply will be fine. Is there anything else?”

“When do I start?” Husam al Din shot her a hard look. “Allah is waiting for me.”

Alicia Gomez shook her head in disgust. Even though she worked for al-Qaeda, she had no taste for martyrdom or murder. The money was good, and that was how she justified her connection to the terror network, but she did not agree with those who were anxious to kill themselves to prove their faithfulness. She was raised Catholic, and suicide and murder were sins. She knew she had to deal with that someday. Her professed shift to Islam was pure business – very profitable business – and for now that was all she cared about.

“The container is right over there,” and she pointed to a distant corner of the warehouse. “As soon as you are ready, we will load the trailer inside.”

“I am ready now,” Husam al Din said.

“Very well. Do you have your device?”

“Everything I need is here,” he said, patting the duffel bag.

“Then make yourself comfortable. We will close the trailer and load it into the container. Our people will bring the flatbed and truck within the hour. By tonight, you will be aboard the container ship Desdemonda. She leaves the harbor at three o’clock in the morning. You will need to conceal yourself in the hidden compartment one hour from now and not come out until the ship leaves. Do you understand?”

He scowled at her for sounding so condescending. He did not like someone talking down to him, especially not this woman who might suspect that he was afraid of close spaces. “Yes, woman, I understand,” he growled.

“Hey,” – she pointed her finger at his face – “don’t you talk to me like that! You may be young and you may have decided to be some kind of hero, but I don’t let anybody growl at me like that. Do you understand?”

His black eyes flashed and he showed her his teeth. “Do you understand that if I did not require your help, I would slit your throat? You cannot fool me, woman. You are a kafir. If you were truly Muslim, you would be ashamed to dress like this and show your eyes to me this way. You are lucky now, but Allah will have you in his hands one day and I will be there to testify against you.”

“Oh my,” she laughed, “listen to you. A suicide murderer who is going to testify against me at the judgment bar of God? Let me tell you something, He already knows my sins, and yours, so you better start thinking about what you are going to say to Him in your own behalf.”

“I should kill you now,” he snarled.

Alicia Gomez laughed in his face. “You talk brave for one who is about to die. Do you think maybe the sound of your own voice will give you strength? Silly boy.” Then her eyes turned fierce and the green fire glowed. With fingernails like claws, she reached toward his throat, but stopped short. “Were you not going to your death by your own hand, I would kill you myself.”

“Get out of here,” he shouted. “You defile me and the place of my martyrdom!”

“With pleasure,” she said, turning her back to him and stepping out of the trailer into the warehouse. “Lock him in,” she yelled to her men.

They moved in and closed the trailer door, then a forklift was brought and hitched to the tongue. In less than five minutes, the trailer was pushed into the back of the shipping container and lashed to the tie-downs on the container walls. The empty space in front of the trailer was filled with cardboard boxes and plastic totes, all marked as household goods. Heavy web nets were draped over the boxes and lashed to the tie-down cleats, to keep them from shifting during shipment. The men stepped out and swung the heavy steel doors shut and threw the locking handles into place with a loud clash that echoed off the warehouse walls. The hoop of a sturdy padlock was dropped through the holes in each of the security handles and snapped shut. Forty minutes later, the truck arrived and the container was hoisted onto the flatbed and tied down.

“Here is the manifest,” Alicia Gomez said, handing the driver the paperwork. “For the record, in the container are one RV travel trailer and household goods belonging to US Navy Ensign Hal Wadsworth who is transferring to Pensacola, Florida after a long and honorable tour of duty in the Philippines.”

The driver nodded. “Sounds about right to me. Our guys at the loading terminal know that they’re supposed to shuffle things around. This box will be loaded last so it will be one of the first off in Miami. Orders from Islamabad, I guess.”

“Whatever makes the guy happy,” she said. “Get this garbage out of here.”

Inside the trailer, Husam al Din sat in the utter blackness, afraid to turn on the light and face the reality of his confinement. Sweat filled the palms of his hands and his breathing was quick and shallow. In an attempt at mental escape, he closed his eyes and sent his imagination to the high mountains of the tribal area, where the sky was wide open and snow blanketed the distant peaks. His mind saw soaring birds, free in the wind. He inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart, but the biting smell of formaldehyde from the trailer’s cheap wood paneling stung his lungs and made him choke. Sweat dripped from his face and ran freely down his back. He fingered the button on his wristwatch until the dial lighted.

“One hour,” he muttered into the darkness. “Only one hour until I have to climb into the coffin. This is worse than death. Allaahu, Akbar. Ashhadu Allah ilaaha illa-Lah.”

October 13th – The Land Without Laws

Two hours after dusk, the wailing song of the call to prayer sounded across the tiny village, and all activity stopped. Josh Adams pressed his face close to the planks across the window and stared out into the cold blue light of early nightfall. As if in a hypnotic trance, all the villagers stopped what they were doing, and headed toward the dusty central plaza where the mosque stood. He knew from past experience that they would be there for most of an hour, and the streets would be empty. It was time.