Dale Brown - Act of War

“Gee, I wonder where we’ll be sleeping tonight—in a jungle in Brazil chasing down terrorists, or in a federal prison cell?” Ariadna asked absently. “And I wonder which would be worse?”

Richmond, California

That same time

After all the delays and endless paperwork, the job of unloading the cargo vessel King Zoser was finally underway, with a long line of flat-bed trailers waiting to pick up the oil-derrick parts. One by one, massive overhead Takref/Gresse container cranes picked up the parts and pipes and placed them on the trailers, where armies of workers secured the parts to the trailers with chains. As they worked, U.S. Customs Service inspectors, augmented with Army National Guard soldiers with military working dogs, looked on, occasionally asking to look inside the pipes or recheck a serial number.

Captain Yusuf Gemici looked and felt immensely relieved as he watched Boroshev’s heavy equipment being loaded aboard the trailers. American National Guard troops watched the pumps as they were chained in place, but they made no move to check them. No sign of any law-enforcement activity whatsoever, just normal, albeit heightened, port security and customs scrutiny. He couldn’t wait to get on with his voyage and…

Just then, a U.S. Customs Service officer who was sitting in a Humvee nearby stepped out of his vehicle, said a few words on a walkie-talkie, stepped quickly over to the pumps being chained onto the trailer, and started examining the lead tamper-evident seals on the safety wires on the sealed flanges. What in hell…they went to precisely the pump that had Boroshev’s mysterious delivery in it! Gemici fished out his cigarettes and lit one up to help steady his nerves…but as he looked away, out the port side of the ship toward the west into San Pablo Bay, he saw the Coast Guard patrol boat Stingray approaching them, just a few hundred meters away now, with the skipper watching him through binoculars and with two Coast Guardsmen on deck with M-16 assault rifles. Another customs service interceptor speedboat was a bit further north, officers lining the rails on both sides watching carefully for any sign of anyone trying to jump overboard and escape.

Gennadyi Boroshev came strolling up to him a few moments later. “Do you see this?” Gemici shouted. “The Americans are looking at your damned cargo and will be arresting us any second! What the hell have you done? What is in those pumps? Tell me!”

“Relax, Gemici,” Boroshev said, lighting his own cigarette. “You’ll have yourself a heart attack.”

“I will not relax! You had better tell me, dammit!”

“Shut up, you fucking old hen, or I will shut you up permanently,” Boroshev said. A white van without windows drove up to the cargo on the pier, and several men in protective MOPP suits emerged with detectors in hand. Armed officers started appearing, M-16 rifles in hand; Boroshev looked behind him and saw several Coast Guard seamen lining the rails with M-16s drawn as well. “If they find anything, we’re fucked. But they will not find anything.”

One of Gemici’s crew members ran up to the captain. “Sir, the Coast Guard and the harbormaster wish to speak with you.”

“May Allah help me, I am going to be arrested…!”

“If they wanted to arrest you, fool, you’d be in handcuffs by now,” Boroshev said. “Go see what they want. Be cooperative, and stop babbling like a damned monkey.” He didn’t trust Gemici one bit to keep his cool, but it didn’t matter—the more nervous he seemed, the more the damned American customs officers would think they were on the right trail.

“All hands, the smoking lamp is out, waste disposal in progress,” the loudspeaker announcement said. Boroshev stubbed out his cigarette and kicked it over the side. Christ, the air would stink of shit and diesel for the next eight hours, even though offloading the waste would only take one hour.

He wanted to stay and watch Gemici, but he had to act natural in case he himself was being watched, so he left and filled out logbooks in the engine room for several minutes, had a bite to eat, then returned to the rail. It took over an hour of sweating, hand-wringing, gesturing, and pleading from Gemici, and a careful search by the customs investigators, but finally they packed up and departed. “They questioned me about radioactive residue on those pumps!” Gemici said when he returned to Boroshev up on deck. “They said they detected radioactive residue! Those pumps are going to be confiscated!”

“They will hold them until the owner comes looking for them, and then they will have no choice but to release them,” Boroshev said.

“But the residue…!”

“Do not concern yourself over ‘residue,’ Captain—they can’t arrest anyone for ‘residue,’ ” Boroshev said. “There are dozens of good reasons why large machinery parts like that would trigger radioactive detectors, and they know it.”

“But…he said radioactive residue…!”

“You old fool, shut your mouth and go about your business!” Boroshev snapped. “Your job here is done. You have been paid for your work—now get out of my face.”

Boroshev tried to look calm and collected, but inwardly he was still nervous. They apparently did detect something, but obviously at levels far below what they needed to confiscate the entire vessel and crew. That meant they had no concrete evidence, which meant so far their operational security was good. He had made it. He’d given himself only one chance in ten of pulling it off, but he’d done it.

The customs officials were now going over each and every piece of machinery being offloaded—it would take several more hours to accomplish, maybe the rest of the day. The Coast Guard vessel Stingray was still off the starboard side, but the crewmen on the rails no longer had their rifles at port arms. Most of the crew of the King Zoser was on the port rail, watching the U.S. Customs Service inspectors and National Guard soldiers doing their work. Almost all other work aboard the cargo ship had come to a halt…

…except for the task of unloading tons of trash, sewage, gray water, and contaminated oil and diesel into a garbage barge that had pulled alongside, which was going on at the stern. Boroshev watched the inspections going on at the bow…but out of the corner of his eye, he was also making sure offloading the ship’s waste was going smoothly as well. There were no uniformed customs officers over there, just contract workers making sure nothing was dumped in the harbor. When that was done and the announcement came that the smoking lamp was lit again, he smiled and lit up another cigarette.

Mission accomplished, he thought happily. Mission accomplished.

Clovis Municipal Airport, New Mexico

That same time

“I’d say we have a major problem here, folks,” Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson said wearily. He had everyone standing out on the ramp beside the Learjet, with Air Force security vehicles surrounding them. The rear cargo hold was open, and Jefferson went back and looked inside, saw the folded CID unit, and shook his head. “I’m going to take extreme pleasure in seeing that all of you spend the next twenty years or so in a federal prison, breaking big rocks into little ones.”

“Sergeant Major, I’m prepared to explain why we’re…”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Major Richter!” Jefferson exploded. “There is no possible explanation on earth for this. You’re absent without leave; you left the base with classified government property without permission; you conspired to use classified government property in an unauthorized manner. That’s only for starters. I’m not a damned lawyer, but I’m pretty sure all of you could grow very old in Leavenworth before you ever see the light of day again.” He took an exasperated breath. “Are you absolutely insane, Richter, or just a damned idiot?”