Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

Even though night was falling fast, the low-light binocular magnified and brightened the image, and what he saw astonished him. It was the same boat that had been tied alongside the dock at San Luis Miguel. His right hand closed around the flare gun while he continued to hold the glasses with his left. As the boat approached, he saw a man he had not seen before standing behind the wheel of the red and black powerboat. The man’s face bore a full dark beard, and he was wearing a white t-shirt. That much Dan could see. And the man was waving. The face was not one from the island, and none of the pirates wore a white; they were a grubby lot, and their clothes were dirty. The shirt on the man in the boat was very white, almost as if it were new.

Dan relaxed the grip on the flare gun and returned the gesture. “I need fuel,” Husam al Din yelled across the distance as the boat came closer. “I am almost out of gas. Do you have some that I can purchase?”

“Just keep your distance,” Dan yelled and made a pushing motion with his hands. “First of all, we don’t use gasoline. Our engine is diesel. And second, I want to know who you are. I saw your boat on an island. We were taken by pirates,” – his hand went back to the flare gun – “and I don’t want you to approach our boat until I know who you are.”

“Ah.” Husam al Din smiled and wiped his brow as a gesture of relief, then he launched into a lie that he made up even as he spoke it. “If you have been on that island, then you must know that my boat and I were hijacked by some bad men. I was taken hostage. But this morning, I was able to escape and get my boat going. But they left it without much fuel.”

The story sounded plausible to Dan. De la Vega and his gang could possibly have pirated this man’s boat, just as they had done to their own. Perhaps in the chaos of their own escape this morning, the other man was also able to escape from wherever they were holding him. It was possible.

“Well, I’m sorry,” – Dan wagged his head – “but we don’t have gasoline on this boat. But we should be able to send someone to help you as soon as we get into our next port. I’ll mark your latitude and longitude and send someone to find you. How’s that? Do you have enough food and water to hold on for a couple of days out here?”

Husam al Din shook his head sadly. “They left me with nothing.”

Dan thought about it for a moment. “Well, I can’t tow your boat. It’s too big and heavy for our sailboat to tow. But I can’t leave you out here without food and water. You stay right there,” – he pushed his hands to tell the stranger to back away from the catamaran just a little – “and I’ll put together some food and water for you. Then I’ll send someone who can bring you some gasoline. I’ll be right back.” He ducked into the cabin, leaving Buzz steering and the other boat following.

Just inside the doors to the main salon, Dan bent down and looked in the refrigerator. He pulled out a few things, gathered them into his hands and stepped into the galley, then slid open the cabinet where canned foods were stored. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Nicole, can you help me put together a package of food and water for this fellow? He’s out of gas and…”

“I’ll be right there,” Nicole answered as she stepped out of Cadee’s aft cabin, but the sudden look of terror on Nicole’s face stopped Dan in his tracks.

“What is it?” He spun around just in time to see the sweep of a fist driving into his temple, and then everything went black.

The sun was high when the C-130 banked into a long clockwise turn and Josh moved to a window to look outside. More than a mile below, he saw the green hourglass shape of a tropical island, resting like an emerald on a cobalt blue jeweler’s cloth. A beautiful sight. Like a bit of paradise.

After circling once at a high altitude, the airplane began a slow descent. Of what he could see from his view through the window, there was no activity on the ground. But that didn’t surprise him. Only the edges of the island and a couple of clearings were visible all the way to ground level, the rest of it was veiled by a dense canopy of trees. Still, as they circled again at a lower altitude, he saw no boats and no people.

“Maybe we ought to take a low and slow flyby,” he suggested to Pfister, received a nod of agreement and the captain relayed an order to the pilot.

On the next pass, the C-130 was less than a hundred feet off the water and moving just fast enough to stay airborne. Josh planted his face against the window and studied every shadow. “There,” he pointed, as they followed the contour of the east harbor, “see it?”

Pfister stared, then slowly nodded. “Yeah. Looks like a dock back under the canopy where that river emerges.” He moved the helmet mic in front of his mouth and spoke to the pilot, then switched the mic off and turned back to the window. “I ordered another pass, this time right up the mouth of the river at tree-top level. We’ll have high-speed cameras going. Maybe they’ll pick up something we aren’t able to see.”

“It’s going to be the middle of the night before the cutter arrives?” Josh asked.

“Yeah. We’ll sort out what we can see from the photos on the onboard digital monitor, then go back to Panama. If the container is here like the message from Borboleta said, we’ll fly you out on a chopper to join the cutter crew before they arrive. That is, if you don’t mind making a refueling stop along the way.”

Josh rolled his eyes, “You do know how to tempt a guy.”

The plane leveled off just above the water and headed straight for the mouth of the river. Suddenly, the pilots revved the C-130 engines and Josh felt the aircraft begin to climb. Outside, the flash of green treetops became a blur as the plane rose through the saddle separating the two harbors. A message came into the helmet earphones.

“Anything else before we return to base, sir?”

“How about one more go-round,” the captain said. “I don’t think Mr Adams has gotten his money’s worth yet.”

“Aye, sir,” the pilot said, and he tipped the wings on end as the plane banked sharply to the right.

Eight minutes later, after a second pass up the mouth of the river and over the saddle, the C-130 pulled up and leveled off toward Panama.

“They’re ready, sir,” the words came through the headset, and Pfister motioned for Josh to follow him. In a forward cabin just aft of the cockpit bulkhead was a computer screen with the image of a wooden barge carrying a rust-colored container. Josh took a seat beside the computer operator and pointed to the corner of the screen.

“Can we move in on that?”

“Yes, sir.” The operator dragged the mouse over the photo and zoomed in on the requested spot.

“Can we clean it up?”

The operator typed on the keyboard, brought up a menu, gave the commands, and the image sharpened.

“Can you take it another step?”

“The image will begin to pixilate, sir, but I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I just need to be able to read the serial number.”

“Aye, sir.” The operator manipulated the image to bring a higher level of sharpness and contrast. “How’s that, sir.”

Josh stared at the screen, then blew his lungs empty through pursed lips. “Perfect. BA11M. There it is. We’ve got it.” He turned to Pfister with fire in his eyes. “Soon as we touch down, I want to be on my way to that cutter. Nobody can go ashore ahead of me. Is that clear?”

Pfister sat back and studied Josh’s face, then scanned the faces of the two crewmen in the room. A look of surprise and expectation formed their expressions, and they glanced at each other and waited for the inevitable. The captain dragged his chair closer to Josh, then raised his voice and launched into a tirade.