Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“Right, chief.” Susan ended the call and turned to Josh as she stuffed the phone back in her pocket. “I stay here to chase paperwork. You go to Panama to chase the ship and the bad guy. Lucky dog.”

“I already know this bad guy. Wanna trade?”

She smiled. “Not for a minute.”

At NIA headquarters, Curt Delamo identified himself as a CIA officer, which was technically true, when he made his call to the Coast Guard station in Panama City. NIA was not known outside a small group of elite intelligence leaders inside CIA, so Delamo resorted to his link with the parent organization when working with other agencies such as the Coast Guard or Homeland Security. It was a fact that every NIA agent was also a CIA agent, the difference being that they were assigned to a black-ops Special Projects detachment that was known to only a select few.

In Panama, Captain Klaus Pfister picked up the line and listened to Delamo’s request. Pfister was a hardline military type, trained to do things by the numbers and take no shortcuts. “Sir, can you give me a number where I can reach you? I’ll need to kick this upstairs for approval.”

“For heaven sakes,” Curt almost yelled into the phone, but managed to hold it down to just a loud voice, “all I’m asking for is the status of one of the container ships coming through the canal. Is it there yet? Has it already passed through? That’s all.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t know who you are. We live in a different age and work by a new set of rules since 9/11. Until I verify your identity, your request will go unanswered. Do you want me to proceed?”

Curt exhaled with a degree of exasperation. “Forget it. I’ll just call the Port Authority.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but if you are really who you say you are, you might not want to involve them. Meaning no disrespect, but there is reason to be cautious with classified information, especially when dealing with the Port Authority in Panama.”

“I appreciate your candor. This is a highly classified operation, and it needs the most urgent attention. What can you do for me?”

“I can do what I said and then get back to you. Is that what you want?”

“How long it is going to take?”

“I can’t make promises, but I can say that I will personally see to it.”

Curt understood bureaucracy well enough to know that it was futile to argue. “Then go ahead and do whatever you have to do. But please expedite.” He gave the captain the number for a secure line into the CIA, a number to an upper echelon officer who would provide the right cover for Delamo. Then he hung up the phone.

Delamo’s second call was to the Homeland Security, where he was put through to Secretary David Robinson. Robinson was already in the loop, so after brief pleasantries Curt got right to the point. “We think we have identified the ship. I am working on verification of its present location, and will notify you as soon as I have something more.”

“Good,” Robinson said. “Your people are on this, so we’ll stand out of the way until it becomes a more domestic situation. But I’ll start putting things into place in case we need to conduct a mass evacuation or go in and handle a decontamination-and-recovery mission.”

“Thank you, Mr Secretary. I’ll keep you updated.”

Curt hung up, then placed his third call to Secretary Rick Keller at Defense. “Mr Secretary, I recommend that we put Seal Team Seven on standby and positioned for interdiction.”

“I’ll see to it,” Keller said. “I’ll have them stationed at Pensacola so we can conduct a fast attack.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Curt Delamo’s next call was to his wife. “Honey, don’t ask any questions. I’m not going to be home for a while. I want you to take the kids and go to visit your uncle Mick in Scotland.”

There was a long silence on the phone, then finally Merrilee spoke. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. No questions. Just go. Plan for a long visit. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

“Is tomorrow okay? I have things to arrange. Call Mick, for one. And the kids are off running around. It’s not like I can just drop everything.”

“Tomorrow will be fine. I need your support on this.”

“Of course you have it. I’m sorry to be cranky. This caught me off guard.”

“I know. Do what you need to do and call me from Mick’s when you get there. Wherever I am, I’ll be on the cell.”

“Okay, honey. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Tell the kids I love them. We’ll talk soon.”

The phone was barely back on the cradle and it rang again. It was Captain Pfister. “Sir, your request is granted. Here’s what I have. The Desdemonda departed an hour and twenty minutes ago. Next port of call is Miami in approximately forty-nine hours.”

“Thank you, captain.”

“One problem, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“Hurricane Yolanda is dead ahead of the Desdemonda. The two will collide within the next seven hours.”

“What’s her strength?”

“She’s at category 4 right now, sir. Winds are at 135 knots and rising. Sea state is at forty feet out of the southeast.”

“A ship like the Desdemonda… what can she take?”

“No ship is safe in those conditions, sir. Container ships are no exception.”

“Can she be ordered back into port?”

“We have no authority to do so, sir. Aboard ship, the captain is the ultimate authority; the safety of the vessel and her crew is his responsibility.”

“Why did he leave, knowing that the storm was coming?”

“I cannot speak for the captain, sir. But it is highly unlikely that he was unaware of the weather conditions. Perhaps he thought he could outrun the storm, make it into the channel and stay ahead of the weather.”

“Racing the train to the crossing, huh?”

“In a sense.”

“Stupid, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask, sir, but I have to agree.”

“Thank you, captain.”

“Think nothing of it, sir.”

Delamo hung up the phone, thought a moment, then picked it up and called the National Hurricane Center in Miami. Noel Page took his call and started to read him the standard forecast.

“Mister Page,” Curt stopped him in mid-sentence, “I can log into your website if all I want is the forecast. I want to know what this storm is really going to do. How bad will it get? Where is it going to make landfall? What would it do to a container ship caught in its path?”

There was a momentary silence on the line, and Curt was just about to ask if anybody was still there. Then Page spoke up. “Mr Delamo, I can’t tell you with any degree of exactness what is going to happen with this hurricane. With the possible exception of my mother-in-law, there is nothing on earth as unpredictable as a hurricane.”

“Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?”

“We can make predictions based upon similar factors from past storms, but a hurricane is kind of like a serial killer: you can look at patterns of past behavior and make a guess about where he’s likely to strike next and what he’ll probably do, but you can’t really know until after the fact. Wish I could tell you more.”

“Yeah, me too.”

October 28th – The bridge deck of the Desdemonda

Desdemonda steamed north from Colon for more than fourteen hours, making 320 nautical miles before veering slightly to the northwest, well outside the hazards to navigation presented by the islands of Providencia. Captain Eric Sleagle propped himself against the helm station with feet wide apart and knees bent to absorb the ship’s movement. He held a binocular to his eyes, scanning the southeastern horizon.