Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

With a weary hand, he reached up from his position on the bed, turned on the small overhead light and looked around at the mess. He prided himself on being a clean and orderly man, and the scene before him was disheartening. “What has happened to me?” he thought aloud, and the sound of his own voice came as a shock. It had been nearly two weeks since he heard any sound except that of his own miserable retching, and the constant thrum-thrum of the ship’s engines vibrating through the steel walls of the container. And then it came to him – how long had it been since he heard the sound of Salaat, his prayers? How long had Allah gone without hearing the prayers of Husam al Din?

The thought stunned him, and he immediately rose from the bed to begin Niyyat, standing with respect and attention to put the world behind him. “Allaahu Akbar…” he began, but the roll of the ship, and his own weakness toppled him and he fell in a heap beside the bed. He struggled back to his feet, intent on demonstrating to Allah that he had not forgotten. An excuse ran through his mind: it is because I have been so sick , he tried to justify himself. Then another realization crashed into his mind, and he fell to the bed and wept. “I don’t even know which way it is to Mecca,” he wailed. “How can I possibly pray when I do not know which way is toward Mecca?”

In his misery, he reached into the duffel bag and felt for one of the two flashlights that Asman Massud built for this special mission of jihad. He rolled it over in his hands, feeling the knurled aluminum barrel that made it look exactly like one of the expensive American flashlights he had seen in the picture above Massud’s workbench. For a moment, he considered switching the light on and ending his wretched life. But he stopped, laid the flashlight on the mattress beside him and mumbled, “I am Husam al Din, the Sword of the Faith.”

San Blas Islands

“You won’t believe what I just heard on the SSB net.”

Dan took the last two strokes of the oars and skidded the dinghy onto the beach where Sven was lying in the shade of a palm.

“This palm is too skinny. I have to keep moving every couple of minutes,” Sven complained.

“Well, while you’re whining about your inconveniently narrow tree, I’m frustrated as all get out.”

“Why? What’s the problem?”

Dan climbed from the skiff, pulled it half a boat-length onto dry sand and dragged the bow line up the beach with him. “The problem, my faithful Nordic friend, is that the National Hurricane Center in Miami is starting to make noise about another tropical depression that’s meandering across the Atlantic, displaying intentions of heading our way.”

Sven nodded at the line in Dan’s hand. “You gonna tie that to something?”

“How about if I tie it around your neck?” Dan’s voice rose, then he threw the line on the ground.

“Hey, I admit that I’m Danish and that we are known to be a powerful, not to mention good-looking, race of people. But wonderful as I am, I’m not in charge of the weather. Please don’t spread that around.”

“You said hurricane season was over.”

“Almost over. I think I said almost over. Besides, this late in the season, weird things happen with the weather. Just get your brain back into cruiser mode. That means no stress; slow down to an idle, wear a big smile, life is good.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have anywhere to go.”

Sven grinned up at his friend. “Well, unless you want to go out there and play with a hurricane, I’d say neither do you.”

“Yeah, well we did want to get to Guatemala, sail up the Rio Dulce, wander the jungle, take a tour to see the ruins up north. Stuff like that.”

“Been there, done that,” Sven yawned. “Rio Dulce has nothing that’s better than this place, so just pull up a sliver of shade and relax. Sorry our trees are so skinny, but they’ll have to do.”

Dan flopped on the sand and stared at the palm fronds dancing on the breeze against a backdrop of perfect blue. “I guess you’re right. It’s just that sailing the Rio Dulce has been a long held dream of mine.”

“Let me play psychiatrist for a minute, okay?” Sven said.

“Go for it. I already know I’m nuts.”

“Being nuts is only part of your problem.”

“Oh, thanks,” Dan grumbled. “How much do I owe you for that sage diagnosis, Doctor Lutefisk?”

“Hey, don’t let it worry you. We’re all a little bit nuts.”

“Especially those of us who pretend we’re psychiatrists.”

“Especially so,” Sven said.

“So, what’s the rest of my problem?”

“I don’t know that we have time to cover that much ground.” Sven shook his head in mock seriousness.

Dan sat up and started to get to his feet. “Right! Well, I guess this session is over. My check is in the mail.”

“Okay,” Sven chuckled, “ sit back down. I’ll give it to you straight.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“The whole problem can be summed up in one word – expectations.”

“What’s wrong with expectations?”

“What’s wrong with them is that they don’t always get fulfilled. An unfulfilled expectation is what causes stress. Stress is what causes heart attacks, ulcers and the kind of mental lapses that drive men into the path of a hurricane in an attempt to fulfill an expectation.”

Dan laid back in the shade of the palm, laced his fingers behind his head and stared thoughtfully at the fronds and the blue. After a long moment, he rolled his head toward Sven. “Thanks Doc.”

“I’ll send you a bill.”

October 27th – Colon, Panama

Captain Sleagle stepped from the sweltering humidity into the cool, smoky darkness of the Papagayo. A ceiling fan with fake palm frond blades thrummed with a low vibration as it circulated a cool breeze through the air-conditioned saloon. Old wooden chairs were tilted up against small tables scattered around the room, and most of the bar stools were unoccupied. It was early afternoon, so the place was almost empty. Here and there, the perennial drunk who paid no attention to time of day or night, sat in dazed silence and nursed a bottle. The Papagayo was relatively peaceful at the moment, but that would only last a few more hours until it devolved into the brawling chaos that erupted every night.

For a moment, Sleagle stood by the door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then he spotted his favorite bar stool, empty, at the far end. He navigated through the maze of tables and chairs, pulled back the stool and took a seat. One glance at his wristwatch made him shake his head, disappointed that his time ashore was going to be so short.

“Ignacio,” he called to the bartender, trying to make himself heard above the racket coming from the cluster of patrons apparently having a high time at the pool table. He had known Ignacio for more than fifteen years, and saw the skinny black-skinned man every time he came through Colon and made his traditional trek to the Papagayo.

“Aye, Capitan Sleagle, it is good to see you again.”

“Is it me, or is it my money?” Sleagle laughed. “It’s good to see you again, too, my friend. How is your family?”

“Ah, they are doing well. Now that Ramon has gone off to school, Solange has come to help me run this place. She takes care of the books, makes sure we don’t run out of anything important, and keeps me in line.”

“We all need some of that,” Sleagle said. “I’ll have a shot of El Fuego.” In two hours, he was due back on the bridge deck of the Desdemonda preparing for the final leg of the voyage, and he couldn’t afford to have more than one drink in his belly.