David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

The captain squirmed. “They boarded from the stern, where the lookouts could not see them,” he said finally.

Hashem frowned. “What about radar? Did you have radar operating?”

The captain nodded.

“Well?” Hashem said. “Why didn’t you see them?”

“The radar operator was asleep on watch.” The captain hung his head.

“Asleep? Are you serious? What did you do to him?”

The captain squirmed again. “He is the son of a central committee chairman… there is nothing I can do.”

Hashem lit a cigarette. “Show me where you were confined.”

The captain led him to the galley and the dry stores area. Hashem tested the strength of the door. “How long were you held?”

The captain shrugged. The pirates had taken their wristwatches. “Maybe two hours,” he said.

“And then what happened?”

“We heard helicopters, then the sounds of gunfire — heavy caliber — then small arms fire on board. After about twenty minutes, we were freed by the Americans, Navy SEALs.” The captain extended his arms and flexed his muscles as he recalled them. “They were taking body bags off and two of the pirates were in handcuffs. And one SEAL was injured. He was in a stretcher being lifted off by the helicopter.”

Hashem flicked his cigarette into a nearby sink and tapped another out of the package. The captain was clearly infatuated by the Americans, and even worse than that, he believed every word of what he was telling Hashem.

“And all of your men were accounted for?”

The captain shook his head. “We lost one. A mess cook, just a boy. I didn’t even realize he was missing until after we were locked up.”

“Dead?”

“The pirates killed him. That’s what the Americans said. We stopped in Singapore to ship his body home. It delayed us almost two weeks.”

“And the Americans, they looked at your manifest?”

The captain puffed out his chest. “My documents are the best. Your buyer made sure of that. The stupid Americans matched the manifest to the cargo and left.”

“Did they do anything else?”

Captain Kim shrugged. “They took pictures.”

“Nothing else?” Hashem pressed him. “Were they alone with the cargo for even a few minutes?”

The captain shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely not!”

Hashem’s phone rang. “Cargo on the dock?” he said into the receiver.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll be right down.”

Hashem smoked in silence as the captain shifted from foot to foot. His hand touched the knife at the small of his back. His years of experience told him the captain was telling the truth. Using more forceful measures would only cause the North Korean to try to tell him what he thought Hashem wanted to hear, and it would take a long time. Even as he sat staring at the captain, the Americans might have a satellite overhead taking photos of his newly acquired TELs, the final piece in his decade-long plan to bring nuclear strike capability to his beloved Iran.

No, the captain was telling the truth. This had been a pirate attack.

The crane hoist lines were just lifting away from the third TEL on the pier. Glistening black in the harsh glare of the overhead lights, the units looked deadly. Hashem smiled to himself when he thought about how they would look with his missiles loaded onto them.

Mansour met him at the base of the gangway. “We’ve been over all three and found nothing that could be a transmitter. We’re fueling the trucks now. We’ll be ready to leave in another fifteen minutes.” He handed Hashem a small briefcase, and then hesitated. “Should I hand out the GPS units, sir?”

Hashem pursed his lips. The GPS units were programmed to guide them to the bunker location — or he could store the launchers locally and do a more thorough search, maybe one with x-ray capability. But then he would have to move the TELs again, increasing his exposure to the American satellites.

Captain Kim seemed to understand that Hashem was making a significant decision. His eyes grew wary and he stepped back, away from the gangway.

Hashem smiled suddenly and handed the briefcase to the North Korean. “For your trouble, Captain Kim. I want you to leave this port as soon as possible, but make sure you get the bullet holes in your ship repaired before you return to North Korea. Have a safe trip home.”

The captain accepted the case with trembling hands. “Thank you, sir.”

Hashem nodded as he tapped out another Marlboro. His lighter flared up, and he focused on the glowing tip of the cigarette.

“Hand out the GPS units, Mansour. I will ride with you.”

Victor Warren fingered the bump under his chin. It felt to him like the start of another pimple. He pressed down hard on the little bump until it hurt. He’d read somewhere that the pressure would suppress the swelling and prevent a pimple from forming. Probably one of the old Cosmo magazines that Gloria had left stacked next to the toilet when she moved out. She’d be back.

He heard the door to the command center open behind him and saw the square of light reflected in his computer screen. Victor sneaked a glance behind him. They didn’t often get visitors down here in the bowels of the CIA on a Friday night unless there was something going on.

The visitor was a naval officer, a rangy black guy with his broad back facing Victor. When he turned, Victor caught a glimpse of a sizeable patch of medals on the front of his service dress blues, and the four gold stripes of a captain.

Victor sat up straighter in his seat and adjusted his headset. Maybe this shift wouldn’t be boring after all.

The officer and his shift supervisor were taking a long time conferring. They broke off as the supervisor put up a time-lapsed satellite feed on the big screen. Victor’s eyebrows went up when he saw it was Iran. Now this was getting interesting. They were discussing a beat-up merchant ship that had docked next to the pier. Victor called up a tab on his screen and typed in the lat-long: Bandar Lengeh, Iran. He ran his eyes over the port details. Small port on the Persian Gulf. Nothing unusual about the port or the ship.

He flicked his eyes up to the big screen again, where the supe had thrown up some new images. Holy shit! TELs! Even he could tell they were North Korean models.

“Warren,” the supe called.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to do an activation sequence on one of the devices for the captain here.”

Victor twisted around in his chair. “I’m ready whenever you are, sir.”

The officer snagged a chair from one of the vacant stations and rolled it over to Victor’s desk. The man had a square face that looked deadly serious until he smiled. He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, holding a single sheet of paper. His hands were huge, with scarred knuckles.

“How ya doin’, son?”

“Fine, sir. How about yourself?”

“Ask me after we see if this friggin’ thing works or not,” he growled. “We went to a lot of trouble to get it in place.”

Victor tried not to show the surprise he felt. They had a tracking beacon on a North Korean TEL that was being off-loaded in Iran? He cursed the fact that he couldn’t talk about his job outside of work. Gloria would definitely take him back if he could talk about this kind of shit.

Victor called up a sensor activation screen. “Standing by, sir.”

“Alrighty then. Let’s do this. Xray, Delta, Xray, Seven, Niner, Papa, Romeo, Xray.”

Victor repeated the letters as he typed them in, then again reading them off the screen. The captain confirmed, and Victor toggled the box that said ACTIVATE.