Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

The Arab was silent. A dark, brooding mood overcame him as he intently focused on Josh’s every move. It was stupid of him to have left the second device. But his mind was not in focus when the container doors swung open. Weeks of seasickness left him dehydrated and malnourished from vomiting almost continuously. The device that he momentarily thought about using to commit suicide had simply been cast aside among the rubble in the trailer. He could almost forgive himself for forgetting it in his rush to escape. But not quite.

“I’ll tell you this, your weapon doesn’t work the way you think it will. Groschenko was wrong.”

“I don’t believe you.” Husam al Din waved the flashlight and moved his thumb to the switch. The dagger carved small circles in the air in front of him. “Groschenko is the best at what he does. He tested it, and it worked.”

“Maybe,” Josh said, “but something has changed with the toxin. Maybe it’s the tropic heat. Sorgei ran his tests in the cold mountains, not the hot tropics. What I saw on the island was instant death, not a slow, progressive disease. You pop that and bang ,” – he snapped his fingers – “we both die that fast.”

Husam al Din grinned wickedly, as he circled to the right. “I am ready to die. I have been ready all my life.”

Josh took another step to his right. “That’s the difference between us. To me, life is a gift from God. Something to be protected as a way of honoring him.”

“And to me,” Husam al Din said, “life is a gift to give back to Allah, as I do his work. That is how I will honor him.”

Trying to buy some time while he scrambled to think of a way to get the weapon away from the Arab, Josh argued, “Think about it. If you die here, your jihad will end in failure.”

“My jihad will be a success, if I kill even one American. And you will do just fine.” Husam al Din lunged with the dagger, and Josh reacted slowly because of his limited vision. He stepped back just a fraction too late and felt the blade pierce his chest. A spreading red blotch appeared on his shirt, and he felt a burning weakness where the blade penetrated.

The shock of the impact knocked Josh back, and he stumbled onto the cockpit bench. Husam al Din rushed him, but even from his fallen position, Josh unleashed a flurry of straight kicks that forced his attacker to back away. He scrambled to his feet, but the Arab caught him with a withering roundhouse kick to the temple on his blind side, and Josh crumbled in pain.

“You are not much of a fighter,” Husam al Din said. “I thought your government trained its agents better.”

The words were barely spoken when Josh shot a sweeping leg kick from his position on the floor. The kick caught Husam al Din just above the ankle, and both legs were chopped from under him. He hit the floor on his back but rolled and came up quickly. Josh was on his feet and met Husam al Din as he was coming up, landing a left jab then a hooking right punch low on the ribcage. The air went out of the bearded warrior, and he backed away to catch his breath, still gripping the flashlight and waving the dagger.

“I underestimated you, kafir. I will not do so again.”

“Too late.” Josh exhaled, stepped in and threw a knife-edge kick that caught Husam al Din in the solar plexus, driving the wind out of the man. He followed with a spinning back-kick aimed at the Arab’s wrist and the flashlight flew from his hand.

It was a mistake, but Josh watched the black metal tube tumble through the air and hit the water. As with most mistakes, the distraction cost him. A crushing blow to the ribs knocked him off balance, as Husam al Din tackled him. The force carried both men out of the cockpit and, as they crashed onto the aft deck, the dagger sliced into Josh’s lower abdomen.

Pinned by the Arab who straddled him, Josh stared into an ugly face that was twisted by rage. Husam al Din lunged, and Josh felt the blade again as it sliced into his shoulder. The Arab followed with an elbow strike that caught Josh on the blind side. He never saw it coming, and the blow blacked him out for a heartbeat, leaving his mind a foggy haze.

Husam al Din jerked the dagger back and lunged again, but Josh instinctively arched his back and kicked upward, knocking his attacker off him. Both men rolled to their feet. Josh was bleeding badly. He stumbled back and braced himself against the stern pulpit.

“I have to hand it to you,” he wheezed, “you’re good with a knife.”

“I am Husam al Din, Sword of the Faith. And I will kill you with my short sword.” He rushed again, the dagger held in a forward grip, swinging upward, aimed to penetrate just below the sternum and tear into Josh’s heart.

With sweeping hands, Josh deflected the blade, broke his attacker’s grip and spun the dagger around backward. When the full weight of Husam al Din thundered into Josh, the dagger was between them, and the point sank into soft tissue. The momentum of the rush carried both men over the rail, and a red slick spread on the water.

The wounds had taken their toll and the impact with the water knocked the breath out of Josh. Blackness swept a dark cloud over his conscious mind and he suddenly felt very cold as he sank into the deep. Beside him, drifting toward the bottom of the ocean, was his mortal enemy, Husam al Din, Sword of the Faith. His eyes were wide, disbelieving. His lips moved, but there was no sound except the gurgling hiss of air escaping from his lungs. Just below his sternum, the dagger of his childhood was buried to the hilt in the hollow of his chest.

Something bright surrounded Josh, and he remembered stories he had read about people dying and finding themselves traveling through a tunnel of light. Then he heard a sound. Soft footsteps, the whisk of cloth rubbing against itself. He opened his eyes just a slit, and immediately groaned in pain. His right eye was blind, the protective bony structure of the eye socket had been crushed. The left eye saw only a gauzy white light.

“Ow,” he complained out loud.

“Welcome back,” a soft female voice caught his attention.

“You an angel?” he choked. “I thought it wasn’t supposed to hurt in heaven.”

“What makes you think you’re in heaven?” This time it was a man’s voice.

“Hell?”

“We’ve been called lots of things, but heaven and hell aren’t among them. Actually, though, I think Miss Devon has been called an angel before. She’s your primary care nurse. I’m Doctor Bishop. You’re at Bethesda.”

“Bethesda,” Josh mumbled. “What happened. The last thing I remember…”

“Not another word.” Josh recognized Curt Delamo’s voice from the corner of the room. “I’ll debrief you when we are alone.”

“Curt?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Been here for the past…” he glanced at the clock on the wall, “…I guess seventy hours, give or take. We’ll talk later. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?”

“I could go for a Ruggiero’s deep-dish pepperoni with extra cheese, olives, sausage and anchovies.”

“You must be feeling better,” nurse Devon said.

Curt scrunched up his nose. “I don’t know. There’s something permanently wrong with anybody who like anchovies on a pizza.”

“And a root beer. A double-huge frosty mug.” Josh smiled. Then he groaned again. “Man, it hurts even when I smile. Why can’t I see anything?”

Nurse Devon moved to his side, cradled his head and shifted the gauze wrap to uncover his left eye. “Because the movement of our eyes is connected, when one eye is injured we generally cover them both to keep them both quiet so the injured one can heal. I’ll remove the bandage from the left if you promise to just lie still and keep your right eye quiet. Don’t go looking around the room.”