Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“I can put you under that boat quiet as duck down floating on a summer breeze.”

“Wake me up when we get there. I’m going to close my eyes for a while. Nothing but black to see outside right now anyway. Black outside, black inside. I might as well take a peek behind my eyelids.”

Nunez chuckled. “A bit tight in here for you, huh?”

“My skin is looser than this thing.” Josh closed his eyes and listened to the faraway hum of the electric motor spinning a stealth prop. The sound drifted away behind him and became almost imperceptible. It seemed like only a few minutes had passed when the intercom crackled in his ears. Josh flicked his eyes open and looked at his watch. It read 0137.

“We’re on target, sir,” Nunez said quietly. “We’re thirty feet down, and holding. My upward facing sonar shows us directly below the space between the hulls. Where do you want me to surface?”

Josh cleared his throat. “At the bows. This boat has a solid foredeck, so if we can come up in the space below the foredeck and between the bows, that will give me the best cover. This late at night, he won’t be on deck saying his prayers. I’ll swim a lap from there to have a look-see. You should submerge and stand by.”

“Aye, sir.”

A moment later, the clear plastic dome over Josh’s head quietly broke the surface directly between the bows and beneath the solid foredeck. He felt for the Glock in the holster under his left arm, tugged it out and pulled the slide back just far enough to check for a round in the chamber. Double checking was an old habit, even though his firearm always carried a round in the chamber. Satisfied, he snugged the gun in its holster, then quietly released the overhead latches and slid the dome back on its glides. Without a sound, he wiggled up out of the seat and eased himself over the side into the water, careful to make no ripples or splash. He reached up and slid the dome forward and latched it from outside, and the tiny sub dropped away beneath him.

Using silent dogpaddle techniques, he swam without disturbing the water back between the hulls toward the stern. Bridge deck clearance was low at the rear of the boat, leaving barely enough airspace for his head to remain above water as he approached the transom. The Sillette drive leg was in the up position, with the propeller out of the water. From above him, Josh heard footsteps, then the sound of an aft compartment being thrown open. Almost as background noise, he heard Husam al Din’s Arab accent. “Allaahu Akbar. Allaahu Akbar, Allaahu Akbar,” over and over like a broken recording that had fallen into a never-ending continual loop. The words were spoken out of breath, as if the man had been running, but there was no place to run on the small boat. He’s in a panic.

After a few minutes, the footsteps and the muttered beginning of the prayer receded to the cabin, and Josh moved to the swim-steps that led down to water level at the rear of the port hull. A moment later, the footfalls returned, and this time the voice was louder, almost as if he were shouting the repetitious prayer to catch the attention of a god who was not responding. Josh ducked back under the transom and listened to the sound of metal against metal, then something hard and heavy was dropped on the fiberglass floor of the engine compartment. The way it hit the floor, it sounded like a wrench falling among a clutter of other tools. I bet he’s trying to figure out how to lower the drive leg so he can use the engine to drive the boat. But he’s working in the wrong compartment.

Again, footsteps moved away from the stern and into the cabin, and Josh took the opportunity to muscle himself onto the stairs and climb into the cockpit. From somewhere inside the cabin, came a noise that sounded as if Husam al Din were rummaging through tools that were apparently stored beneath the bunk in the aft starboard cabin. Without a sound, Josh moved to the side deck and melted into the shadows forward of the hard bimini that covered the cockpit. And there he waited.

“Allaahu Akbar, Allaahu Akbar, Allaahu Akbar,” the words became louder as Husam al Din stepped out of the cabin, strode to the transom and bent over the engine compartment once again with tools in hand.

“Allah isn’t going to help you with this,” Josh said from the shadow, and Husam al Din whirled around, still on his knees, straining to see where the words came from. In the dim light from the cabin, the Arab warrior looked fierce. His bloodshot eyes stood out like red lasers against his dark face, and his teeth showed a white growl framed by the black beard.

Josh stepped from shadow and onto the cockpit bench.

“Sergeant Adams!” Husam al Din sounded astonished. “What a surprise.”

“I’ll bet it is.” Josh jumped down to the cockpit floor and stood with feet apart and hands spread and ready. “So, how’s your jihad going, so far?”

“How did you find me?”

“You left a trail of blood and destruction that was easy to follow. It ends here.”

Husam al Din sneered, “If you try to stop me, your blood will spill next.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The only thing certain is that it ends here for you.”

“Who are you?”

Josh held his finger to his lips and mocked the terrorist. “Shhh, it’s a secret. Don’t tell anybody, but I’m not Sergeant Adams and I’m not in the army.”

Husam al Din eyed him suspiciously. “But our intelligence…”

“Your intelligence found only what we wanted them to find. We’re way ahead of your people. Ask yourself how it is that I am here right now, in the middle of the ocean on a dark night, and you never knew I was coming.”

A look of angry understanding flared in al Din’s eyes. “Of course. CIA?”

“Close.”

“It does not matter. What do you think you can do to stop me now?”

“If you resist, I’ll kill you. But I would rather not. Either way, I’ll recover your weapon so we can study it.”

“Not a chance.” Husam al Din rose to his feet gripping tools in both hands. “I am not easy to kill, but I will not be taken alive.”

Josh pulled the Glock from the holster and aimed it at the terrorist. “Never bring a wrench to a gun fight.” He nodded toward the tools in al Din’s hands. “I don’t really care one way or the other. I’m more than happy to help you accomplish your precious martyrdom. If you die right here, right now, it will save us all a lot of time and money.”

Husam al Din stepped slowly to his right, his eyes fixed on Josh. “I do not think you will kill me. If that were your purpose, you would already have done it. I think you want to take me alive, so your people can interrogate me. I know all about your infidel brutality.”

Josh shifted one step to his right, as Husam al Din continued to move slowly. In the closeness of the cockpit, if they had reached out they could almost touch each other, but each kept a cautious distance. Too late, Josh saw what Husam al Din was after. The Arab suddenly threw the screwdriver and a fistful of wrenches and rushed for a duffel bag on the captain’s seat. Josh threw up his arms and ducked as the hail of wrenches pelted him, but the butt of the screwdriver got through and smashed him in the right eye. He felt the socket break and he was instantly blinded. A stinging blow hit his right wrist, and the Glock flew from his grip and disappeared over the side.

Still blinded, Josh crouched and instinctively swept his arms in front of him in a blocking maneuver. His right eye throbbed and when he forced it open, blood and fluid drained into his hand, but the vision was gone. Squinting his left eye, he saw Husam al Din with a dagger in one hand, and in the other was a black metal object that looked like a flashlight.

“I saw a device just like that on the island where you escaped from the container.”