Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“Hold a minute, Rashid. I’ll get the guys in front of the computer.”

A moment later, she was back on the line. “Okay, we’re ready. I’ve got you on speaker. You can start the video feed. We’ll download to a hard drive so we can do all the playbacks from here.”

“This is footage from the international airport in Karachi at 0849 local time on October 11th,” Rashid said. “Watch closely, because he passes by quickly, but still the picture quality is pretty good. I’m hoping Josh can make a positive ID.”

The three of them crowded around the 36-inch monitor, scanning the crowd of travelers. “There,” Josh pointed at the monitor as a man walked within camera range. “That’s him.”

“Are you certain?” Denise asked. “Tell me why you are so sure.”

“It’s his eyes. Back it up; I’ll show you.”

Denise reversed the hard drive in slow motion until the man came into view again. Josh walked to the monitor and pointed. “Stop there. Now, zoom in.”

Denise typed the keyboard commands and the picture went to freeze-frame and then closed in for a tight shot on the man’s face.

“Can you get closer on his eyes?” Josh asked.

“Yeah,” Denise said, still fingering the keyboard, and the picture zoomed in to twice the former size. “How’s that?”

“Good,” Josh said. “Can we clean it up and sharpen the image?”

“Yes, but I thought you said you had a positive ID on this guy even though he was moving fast.”

“Oh, I know it’s him all right. I just want to show you two why I’m so sure.”

“Okay,” Denise said. “I’ll have it in a second.” She worked the keyboard and the image started to snap into clearer focus. “There you go.”

“All right. Look there, above his left eyebrow. See that little diagonal scar? He was proud of that scar. He told me it was his first battle wound. Got it in the madrassa when he was a kid. A head butt from another kid that he had killed with his dagger. This is absolutely our man.”

“Rashid, did you hear that?” Denise half shouted toward her phone as it sat on her desk some distance away.

“I did. Okay, now that I know for sure, I’ll track this guy’s movements from Karachi. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.”

Denise got out of her chair. “I’m taking a walk down to Curt’s office. You guys want to come?”

At Karachi International Airport,Rashid Singh stepped up to the Indonesia Airlines counter, reached into his briefcase and pulled out a photo ID that showed him as an inspector for the airline. “I would like to see your passenger list from October 11th,” he said to the smiling dark-skinned girl.

“Of course, sir.” She smiled. “Please come this way.” She led him down the counter to an opening where he could step through, then showed him the way to the office. “Please make yourself comfortable. I will summon the man who can help you.”

“Thank you.” Rashid smiled back at her and took a seat in a comfortable chair next to a potted tropical plant. What a gracious young lady, he thought. Only a moment passed before a door opened and a man in a western style suit approached him.

“What can I do for you?” the man asked, a cold tone in his voice.

Rashid stood up and reached out his hand. The man took it as gentlemen do all across the world. “I am here to inspect your passenger records. Particularly, I am interested in the flights on October 11th.”

“What is this all about?”

“Well,” Rashid said, “I am afraid it is confidential company business. All I can tell you is that we are trying to locate a fellow whom we suspect took something onto one of the flights that he was not supposed to have. The company is trying to keep it all as quiet as possible, as you might imagine. Word of this gets out, and the stockholders will start to worry.”

The man in the suit did not return Rashid’s smile. “Let me see your identification.”

“Of course.” Rashid smiled again, reaching into the briefcase. As he bent to retrieve the fake ID card, he heard a faint snapping thud, felt an impact in his upper spine and his hands went numb and started to quiver. The sound was familiar to him, but his brain didn’t place it at first. It seemed as if time stood still. A strange, warm tingly feeling swept over his body. Then it came to him – the sound was the muffled noise of a silenced handgun.

Rashid Singh was dead before he hit the carpet.

October 25th – NIA Headquarters

Curt Delamo picked up the phone and pushed a single speed-dial number. One by one, each team member checked in alphabetically by last name. Even though this was a secure line, it was the check-in system he preferred, and he blamed it on his amateur radio network days. “Adams, Abernathy, Banes, Lund, McFarland, Vellum, Wayanotte.” The roll call was complete, so Curt got right to the point. “Singh is dead. Meeting in one hour. My office.”

An hour later, Curt broke the details. “Got a call this morning from Pakistan. Last night, a body was pulled out of a shallow grave beside a hangar at Karachi International. It was discovered by a maintenance guy. The police chief in Karachi reported it upstream, ’cause nobody seemed to know who the body was. Wasn’t long until word was on the street about the strange body, and one of our field ops guys tracked it back to Singh. Bullet through the spine, just below C7. We’ve seen this before. It was a Pashtun hit.”

“He was made.” Jack Abernathy shook his head. “Somehow he was made. But I don’t know how it happened. Rashid was too clever and too careful for that. He could have showed up for dinner and his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.”

“Well, if they got to Singh, they can get to any of us,” Curt warned. “Somebody doesn’t want Husam al Din to be followed.”

“We know al Din flew out of Karachi on the 11th,” Susan said, twirling her mechanical pencil in her fingers. “We suspect he was flying to a major port city with container facilities and routes to Miami. I say we jump ahead and see what we can find.”

Curt drew a breath and thought for a moment. “All right. Get me a list of the most likely ports, and—”

“Already got it, boss,” Bruce said, handing a sheet of paper across the desk. “And for my money, I’m betting on Manila. Don’t ask me why. Just a gut feeling, and I do have a sizeable gut to work with. Not much hair,” he chuckled, “but a substantial gut.”

Curt scanned the list, noting the inclusion of distances and route vectors from each port to the canal at Panama. “Thorough work. Good job. But your substantial gut notwithstanding,” – Curt shot a smile at Bruce – “I think we’d better split up and cover some territory. There are three ports of particular interest, and we better hit the ground running. We’ve got people in each of these places, and we’ll put them on it immediately. Susan, I want you and Josh in Manila by tonight.”

Susan sighed. “Major jet lag.”

“Jack and Bruce, you’re going to Jakarta. Denise and Chris, you’re going to Singapore. Ernie and I will ghost behind each of you. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Husam al Din is probably already in his container, halfway to Miami. We’ve got to find out where he departed so we can discover what ship he’s on and exactly when it’s due to arrive. Now, let’s get out of here. I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”

October 26th – Inside the container on the Desdemonda

In the stench-filled gloom, Husam al Din pressed the button on his wristwatch to illuminate the dial, and noted the time and date. It had been thirteen days, according to the date block on the face of his watch; nearly two full weeks locked up in a dark coffin that never ceased to roll, pitch and yaw without mercy. At first the seasickness was so bad that he couldn’t even think about food without vomiting, so he decided to forego eating altogether. Lack of nourishment took its toll, leaving him weak. While his body lost strength, his mind began to slide into doubt that all of this was worth it. Even without food, his gut still revolted at the constant motion of the ship, and the dry heaves were so violent that his eyeballs felt as if they were about to burst. After that, he decided that it was better to eat at least enough to allow his stomach to vomit comfortably.