Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“Well, I’m not calling the President. And I don’t expect you to put lives at unreasonable risk. Just keeping the chain of command informed. Unless they send me elsewhere, I’ll be around, and I’d appreciate it if you let me know the minute we can board that ship.”

“The captain stood and offered his hand. “Will do, sir.”

San Blas Islands

Sven and Dan stood on the beach staring with focused attention at a solid shield of grey sky to the northeast. “See, I told you so,” Sven said. “When will you learn to listen to the Danish genius?”

“Yeah, well I have to admit that you called it right this time. As far as genius goes, I’m not buying it. Just luck, I’d say. But I suppose it’s enough to fool the girls.”

Dan felt a pinch on his bottom and yelped.

Nicole retracted her hand and grinned. “You boys aren’t talking in disparaging terms about us girls again, are you?”

Dan spun around. “Geez, Nicole, where did you learn to sneak up on me like that?”

“Nice try, buddy.” She eyed him like a shopper checking for bad fruit. “Don’t go trying to change the subject. Were you, or were you not, saying bad things about us girls?”

“Not,” Dan tried.

“Strike one.” Nicole shook her head. “You know what happens after strike three? Wanna try again?”

Sven was enjoying his friend’s sudden trouble. “I think you’re busted. Might as well confess and throw yourself on the mercy of the court.” He turned to Nicole. “Your honor, if it please the court, this man is guilty as charged. And to add to his offense, he was also making disparaging remarks about my Danish genius when it comes to weather forecasting.”

“Genius, huh?” Grendel stepped out of the hut waving a sheet of paper. “Is that what they call a weather fax these days? Here’s the latest.” She read from the paper: ‘ The eye of Hurricane Yolanda is at 15 degrees 4 minutes north latitude, 81 degrees 19 minutes west longitude. She’s gaining strength and is expected to generate wind speeds in excess of 155 miles per hour. Forecasters are warning of landfall somewhere along the coast of Guatemala, although she could turn north through the Yucatan Channel into the Gulf of Mexico.’

Dan lowered his eyebrows at Sven, “Weather fax, huh?”

Sven took a step back and stammered, “Well, uh…”

“Well, uh, indeed!” Grendel threw the paper at Sven. “So, mister Danish genius, can you tell us all what Hurricane Yolanda is going to do next? Maybe you can make it sound so convincing that you can even fool us girls.” She turned her icy glare at Dan.

Dan held up his right hand. “I solemnly swear that from this minute forward, I will never say another bad thing about you girls. You’re the greatest. After all, you defrocked this Danish fraud.” He turned an evil eye on Sven.

“Ah, come on,” Sven complained. “It was all in good fun.”

Dan put his hand on Sven’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “There is a path to forgiveness, my friend, but it leads through your secret snorkeling hole so we can catch some dinner.”

“Agreed. Let’s go grab our gear.”

Grendel put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot as the boys walked away. “Nicole, have you ever noticed that whenever our men get in trouble, they seem to solve it all by going fishing?”

“I guess it could be worse. At least we’ll get another seafood dinner out of the deal.”

Aboard the Desdemonda

With her bow quartering into the raging seas, the Desdemonda pitched, rolled and yawed violently. Everyone on board was forced to live by the rule of ‘one hand for the ship and one hand for yourself’, maintaining a constant grip on some kind of handhold to keep from being thrown down and injured.

Peter Moyes steadied himself in the doorway leading to his office. “Sir, the latest report from Miami.” Moyes held out a computer printout for Sleagle, who was seated at the helm station.

Sleagle kept his eyes on the instruments. “Read the pertinent stuff to me from there, if you will. No need to risk crossing the bridge deck just to hand me the report.”

“Thank you, sir,” Moyes breathed. “The essence is that they’re predicting movement of the eye up into the Yucatan Channel by 0600 tomorrow. Finally, we’ll be on the backside of this hideous monster and it will be shifting away from us.”

“Hideous monster? Are those their words?”

“Uh, no, sir,” Moyes stammered. “Those are mine.”

“A pretty fair description, I’d say. Thank you for the report, Mr Moyes. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. It’s nice to have you back with us on the bridge deck.”

Moyes flushed. “Sorry, sir, for leaving you without a weather officer for so long. Thanks for allowing me to use your cabin. Sir.” This time, there was no hint of resentment in the use of the word ‘sir’.

“Did you find the meds in the head cabinet?”

“I did, sir. But if you don’t mind my asking, why do you carry seasickness medication?”

Sleagle turned toward Moyes. “For seasickness, of course.” Then sensing the young officer’s reluctance to ask the next question, the captain went ahead and answered it. “Yes, even I suffer from mal de mer sometimes. All it takes is the wrong set of circumstances, and anybody, even an old salt, can get seasick. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“No, sir.”

“Hang on!” the first officer shouted, “here we go again. Another big one.”

The ship plunged into a canyon that had opened a gaping maw in the sea. The bow fell for what seemed like forever, then slammed into the trough at the bottom. The weight of the bow in a freefall continued down, like a diver cutting a clean hole in the water. Moyes gasped and clung to the doorway, sliding to the floor as his legs gave way. To him, it felt as if the ship would just keep going down and never come up. But a long moment later, the ship came up slow at first, then faster and faster until it broke out over the crest of the next enormous wave. Then it plunged again and slammed with a shuddering violence into the bottom of the trough.

“I’d say some of these are above 70 feet, sir!” the first officer shouted above the noise of the storm.

A deep metallic groan sounded from the bowels of the hull, as if something big and important were giving up life, and a worried look crossed captain Sleagle’s face. “Damn,” was all he said. But it was enough to swing the eyes of the navigator and first officer toward their captain. They knew Sleagle was shaken.

Moyes began to whimper like a puppy that is suddenly lost and afraid.

Sleagle grabbed for the microphone, thumbed the button and shouted, “All hands. Secure yourselves, we’re in for a nasty stretch! Deck and cargo hold stewards, survey and report conditions in your areas!” He hung up the mic and turned to the officers on the bridge deck. “You guys okay?”

“Yes, sir,” the first officer and navigator said, almost in unison, but in spite of their words, they really thought the ship was in serious trouble.

“Moyes?”

“Sir?” the weather officer asked with a quiver in his voice.

“You okay?”

Peter Moyes cleared his throat, took a deep breath and tried to quiet the quaking he felt inside. “Yes, sir,” he lied, “I’ll be fine.”

“Good. I haven’t lost a ship or a weather officer to a storm yet, and I don’t intend to start now.”

Moyes closed his eyes, smiled weakly and exhaled, as if he had just been relieved of a terrible burden. “That is wonderful news, sir,”

Inside the topmost container on the Desdamonda, total blackness surrounded Husam al Din. His eyes were wide, but he intentionally kept the light turned off so he wouldn’t have to see the chaos that filled the trailer. Everything that was not part of the RV’s permanent structure was strewn about the floor. When the ship plunged and slammed into the trough, the refrigerator door flew open just long enough to eject everything, then on the next roll, it slammed shut again, extinguishing the dim, momentary light that glowed from inside. Cabinet doors and utensil drawers burst open and threw their contents out. Even in the darkness, though he couldn’t see it, Husam al Din knew the mess was there, and it troubled him deeply. To him, the piles of scattered refuse symbolized the wreckage of his life at this moment.