Dale Brown - Act of War

Gemici sniffed again, obviously his signal that he didn’t believe what he was being told. “Very well. You may proceed.”

“I have eleven crew members and three dogs to perform our inspection,” Wilson went on. “We require access to all spaces, berths, and holds. I request one crew member accompany my search teams in order to expedite movement through your vessel. Any crew members we find belowdecks who are not at required duty stations will be detained by my search teams and may be placed under arrest. Do you understand, sir?”

“More delays,” Gemici growled. Wilson looked as if he expected an argument; the master thought it better to change his tone. “Yes, I understand.”

“This is Chief Petty Officer Ralph Steadman, my noncommissioned officer in charge of this detail,” Wilson said, motioning behind him without taking his eyes off the captain, his voice a bit more authoritative now. “If you have any specific questions about this search, you may ask him at any time.”

Gemici looked the CPO over and decided he did not want to get on this man’s bad side. Steadman said nothing and did not offer any greeting, obviously not in a diplomatic mood. He carried an M-16 on a shoulder sling and a sidearm and wore a bulletproof vest under his orange life jacket—obviously Wilson was the good guy, Steadman the bad. The rest of the search teams were likewise heavily armed and outfitted, with stern, determined, no-nonsense expressions. The recent attack in Houston had obviously altered many attitudes about securing the homeland.

“I have no questions,” the skipper said. “My crew will cooperate in any way possible.”

“Very good,” Wilson said. “If you can lead me to the bridge, sir, I would like to inspect your logbooks, then meet with the crew to check their documents and address any immigration issues.”

“I understand. Buyurunuz.” Gemici used a walkie-talkie and assigned some men to take the search teams where they wanted to go. As they spread out, Gemici noticed the Coast Guardsmen activating small black boxes attached to their life jackets. “What are those devices, Lieutenant?”

“Radiation detectors, sir,” Wilson replied.

“Ah. The attack on your port city of Houston, Texas. Terrible. Terrible.” He spat overboard, being careful to do so with the wind. “Such crazed terrorists hurt all without regard. I curse them all.” Wilson said nothing, but activated his own detection device. “I have been at sea for many days,” he reminded Wilson.

“We’re not singling you out for any particular reason, sir,” Wilson said. “All vessels entering major U.S. ports will be inspected several times before they are allowed to offload their cargo; any vessels already in port will be inspected as well.”

“Evet, anliyorum,” Gemici said, sniffing. “I understand.”

Chief Petty Officer Steadman had gone down to the main deck to check in with the above-deck search team, which was inspecting hundreds of tons of steel pipe and massive house-sized oil field transfer pumps chained to the deck. After asking about their progress, Steadman checked a few of the articles on deck himself. The straight pieces were open and easy to inspect, but the angled pipes and pump flanges were closed with steel security caps, bolted in place and the bolts and nuts sealed by local customs officials with numbered steel wires and lead seals that passed through the bolts, which prevented the nuts from being removed without detection. On an oil pipe with over fifty bolts on it, Steadman checked every third or fourth bolt to save time, examining the seal for the proper registration number and gently tugging on the wire to make sure it was not broken.

After reporting that the above-deck inspection was almost completed, Steadman went belowdecks to check his other inspection teams. These inspections were drier and warmer but not any easier. The usual procedure was to walk slowly up and down the passageways, picking every third or fourth cabin, storage space, or berth to enter and inspect, plus any other suspicious-looking areas such as freezers, flammable-liquid storage areas, and overhead drop ceilings. Each Coast Guard inspection team was briefed daily on the latest intelligence and results of recent searches, which usually provided clues to areas on which to concentrate a search: sometimes patterns emerged, such as using broken-down equipment, “malfunctioning” engines, or spaces with lots of corrosive chemicals in it to throw off a dog’s scent. Searchers were trained to look up as well as look down; they also learned that items were hidden in plain sight as often as they were hidden in the most obnoxious, darkest, smelliest, untouchable places.

As the chief petty officer and senior enlisted man in the inspection team, Steadman tried to show his support for his men by picking the noisiest, smelliest, nastiest places to do his own inspection, which usually meant the propulsion and steering mechanical spaces. But after twenty minutes of careful searching, nothing else showed up. Steadman examined some firefighting equipment that he thought looked odd—finger-to-shoulder heat-resistant gloves, hooded respirator, heat-protective coat, and thick heat-resistant boots, all in a new locker located outside the engine rooms. It was all fairly new and rather high-tech for this ship; only one man, the engineer’s mate, had the key—unusual again, since it might be important for every watch stander to have that key in case of emergency. Steadman made a mental note and moved on.

“Got another weather report from the ship—winds gusting above fifty knots,” Wilson radioed to Steadman after he reported his search of the engine rooms was completed. “Unless you have something special, let’s wrap this up before we’re stuck on this bad boy.”

“Copy.” It was almost time to wrap this search up—but not before he tried one last time to stir up some shit.

Each engine room was supposed to have just one watch stander and one oiler during this inspection, but upon entering the port side engine room, Steadman found a third crewman who was listening to a Walkman and smoking a foul-smelling hand-rolled cigarette, taking some readings from an electrical panel. Without any warning, Steadman pressed the man face-first up against the panel. “Don’t move!” he ordered, placing him in plastic handcuffs. The man was about to struggle, but quickly thought better of it and offered no resistance.

Steadman brought the suspect up to the bridge, still in handcuffs, and his papers were handed to Wilson. “Do you speak English?” Wilson asked.

“Yes.”

He looked carefully at the man’s eyes, then asked him, “Name?”

“Boroshev. Gennadyi Vladomirivich.”

Wilson examined the man’s documents, then turned to the skipper. “Most of your crew is Turkish and Egyptian, but this man is Russian.”

“We have crew members from all over.”

“We asked that only two crewmen remain in each space during the inspection. Why did this man disobey the order?”

“I do not know. Perhaps he thought he was the one who should stay.”

Wilson’s face remained stony, and his eyes locked first on Boroshev’s, then Gemici’s. Both men remained impassive. Wilson radioed in a request for a records check on Boroshev. Like most of the other crew members, his passport and seaman’s license were in horrendous condition, difficult to read and badly weathered. “Skipper, you know that the United States has regulations on the condition of official documents,” he said. “These papers are virtually unreadable. Any documents in this bad a condition will have to be replaced before shore leave for those individuals can be approved.”

“My men are professionals, sir,” Gemici said. “They know the rules, and if they fail to follow them, they must suffer the consequences.” He shook a finger at Boroshev. “Shore leave for you is not approved until suitable replacement documents arrive—which will probably not be on this trip.” Boroshev said nothing, but bowed his head, ashamed of being scolded in front of the American.