Foreign and Domestic Page 26

  Mahegan’s goal was for the blasting cap to ignite the claymore mine and the 700 shotgun pellets would blast at 4,000 feet per second with enough white-hot kinetic energy to burn diesel and, with any fortune, ignite a series of chain reactions in Mahegan’s favor.

  All, presumably, after Mahegan departed the ship.

  With all of the operations ongoing, Mahegan knew he was taking a huge risk once he connected the MVX-90 to the wires. Just about any radio call could ignite the explosives he had just rigged. But he believed this was largely a manual operation between the ships, and he knew most seagoing ships used different high-frequency bands than ground operators. Would that hold true for the internal and external communications on these ships?

  He was about to find out.

  Mahegan gathered his equipment, arranged it in his rucksack, slid his rucksack over his shoulders, spotted his position in relation to the still-closed door, and attached the wires to the MVX-90 terminal posts. He knew he had a good connection, and placed the MVX-90 on a ledge.

  Then he ran like hell for the door.

  As he approached, he heard a metallic latch click on the outside of the hatch.

  When he pulled on the lever to open the door, it didn’t budge.

  Chapter 32

  Mahegan looked over his shoulder at the wires connected to the MVX-90. The same device that had probably killed Colgate might now kill him.

  Another tug on the door and he heard the latch activate. The door was opening without his effort. Mahegan stepped quickly to the port side of the hatch, again opposite the line of sight of anyone entering the door.

  A short man stepped through, ducking his head even though he didn’t need to. Mahegan waited a long second before moving. He was assessing three things. First, was the man armed? He didn’t appear to be. Second, was he moving with any purpose to his step? Third, was there anyone following or was he alone? The last thing Mahegan wanted to do was to attack this man only to have to turn around and fight several others. He decided that the man was alone.

  The man was wearing a rust-colored sweatshirt and dark cargo pants. His hair was black and matted. He seemed broad and stocky. Mahegan assessed the man was probably the engine room captain. This was his domain.

  Which is why Mahegan was not surprised when the man immediately stopped and stared at the MVX-90 sitting in plain sight on the ledge.

  Mahegan watched the man reach into his pocket and retrieve a small personal mobile radio, like a walkie-talkie. Mahegan knew that most of these smaller devices operated in the 380–399 MHz range, which would not be a threat.

  But he was going to disable the man anyway, so why take the chance?

  He stepped forward silently, grabbed the man’s arm with a swift wrestling move, secured the radio, and drove a forearm into the man’s neck. He watched as the man gasped for air, grabbing at his neck as if he was choking on a piece of meat. Mahegan slid quietly behind him after pocketing the radio and snapped the man’s neck. He dragged him behind a panel on the far side of the engine room.

  He moved to the MVX-90 that he had rigged and quickly placed it in a less conspicuous location, securing it again to make certain the tenuous wire connections did not falter with natural ship movements. Now, moving faster than before, he leapt through the hatch, pulled it shut, and sealed the door with the locking arm. As part of the anti-flood system, all of the below-deck hatches could be sealed from the exterior.

  He was up the ladder and out the port side, stopping once only to wait for a busy deckhand to pass by him as he hid in the shadows. He found the ladder and was over the gunwale again. Back in the water, he now began to swim to the one location he had not been.

  Staying away from the active end of the two ships, Mahegan once again retraced his route across the stern of both vessels. Usually not one to double back on any route over land, the only harm in doing so in the sea was that he was moving parallel, not perpendicular, to any sentry’s line of sight. But the swim would be too far for him to go out any reasonable distance that would make a difference and then come back perpendicularly. So, he chanced it.

  He was silent as he kicked and swam a smooth sidestroke. As he rounded the stern of the Ocean Ranger, Mahegan noticed that his only ride home, the Lucky Lindy, was still available.

  He snuggled closely to the ship’s hull, feeling dwarfed again by its sheer presence next to him. Keeping his eye on the only way back to the coast 150 miles to the west, he heard shouts above him.

  These were American voices.

  “Simons is dead! The bastard has been here!”

  So, he had killed Simons. The son of a bitch shouldn’t have been smuggling weapons to the enemy in violation of several treason and espionage laws. Simons, as far as Mahegan was concerned, deserved to die.

  “Get the Concord out of here now. We’re done with the transfer. Also, someone tell the Lindy to get moving. Now!”

  The second voice was an authoritative one. Decisive and commanding.

  Despite their alarm, Mahegan felt relatively comfortable in the water. First, his big concern—whether the Lucky Lindy would still be available as transport once he was done rigging Le Concord—was not an issue. He had an out and was only about fifty meters away from his ride.

  Second, he was in the ocean with an entire ship between him and Le Concord. Both the ship and the water would absorb any blast, provided his makeshift bomb worked. On the other hand, the ship that might act as his buffer had its own load of diesel and explosives.

  Last, he was certain that a radio call would be made in the very near term as they arranged security on the ship. The ship-to-ship communications would not necessarily be in the prescribed bandwidth, but certainly the personal mobile radios would be.

  He found the bow of the Lucky Lindy, approached it from a perpendicular axis, and nestled on its port side. The fishing boat was facing south, the opposite direction of its two neighbors. As he approached, Mahegan saw rubber fenders over the side and ropes tied with half hitches to iron rungs and eyelets on the side of the Ocean Ranger.

  The sounds of pulleys being disconnected, engines revving, and weapons charging filled the air. It was a race to determine if he could get onboard the Lucky Lindy before its crew did, if they hadn’t already. Mahegan was certain that some of the prisoners were going all the way to Dare County Mainland as new slave labor to clear bombs.

  He came around the aft end of the Lucky Lindy, mounted the swim platform, and noticed that the dinghy, a Zodiac Bombard boat with a Tohatsu fifteen-horsepower outboard engine, was still there. He saw three gas tanks propped in the rear of what he now recognized as a Bombard Max version of the Zodiac. Mahegan figured the top speed of a new Tohatsu would be about thirty knots, or five hours of boating from this point, requiring seven and a half gallons of gas. The red plastic gas cans looked as though they would hold three gallons apiece. Nine gallons. Enough, if they were full.

  He had three plays. Take the entire Lucky Lindy. He knew the vessel, but doubted he had time to untie the lines. Or, he could cut the rope on the small Bombard in front of him and steal away into the night. Though if he did that, the Lucky Lindy and crew could run him down.

  He could stow away and cut the Bombard free after traveling closer to shore, giving them little time to catch him before he was safely in the woods. He suspected the third option was best, and confirmed his decision when the boat began rocking. The crew and its prisoners were coming aboard.

  Chapter 33

  Mahegan slid beneath the tarp covering the Bombard Max. The crew had secured the inflatable boat to cleats on the Lucky Lindy using a line on its aft and bow running in either direction. The tarp was angled like a lean-to from the gunwale of the boat to the swim platform five feet below.

  Normally a tricked-out fishing rig, this vessel, Mahegan had seen, had a .50 caliber machine gun mounted in the deck. As he settled beneath the angled space created by the tarp, he counted the number of times he felt the boat shudder with someone jumping from the l
adder on the side of the Ocean Ranger onto the Lucky Lindy. The seam was too tight between the tarp and the boat for him to see, so he had to rely on other senses.

  He could hear the soft bark of commands, spoken in English. “Move. Now. Let’s go. In the hold. Down below.” The rattling of chains competed with the words and he missed some of them. But he felt the thud of every footfall. He resolved that the lighter vibrations were prisoners being lowered to the craft because they were shackled. The heavier vibrations were armed men jumping from the ladder with nothing to steady their descent.

  If his calculations were correct, Mahegan counted four crew and ten prisoners. The crew would no doubt be the two who had originally navigated from the Teach’s Pet to the Ocean Ranger. They probably had two men doing a shift change from the Ocean Ranger coming back to Copperhead and wanted the extra two for security.

  He angled his rifle up toward the tarp as he sensed someone near him, leaning over the aft end of the boat.

  “Ghosts are down below. Check the entire boat before we take off. Make sure there are no stowaways. Stay off comms.”

  “Aye.”

  These were the same voices he’d heard at the Teach’s Pet when the transfer had taken place.

  “Check the Zodiac, also.”

  Mahegan knew he had one play left, and it seemed like a long shot.

  So far he had kept the radio on silent and was surprised that no one had communicated on the personal mobile radios since he had rigged the MVX-90. He felt the tie to the tarp being loosed in preparation for being thrown back and, ultimately, revealing his position.

  So far, the men onboard the Ocean Ranger had not used their personal mobile radios. Either that or he had not properly rigged his improvised explosive device. He had confidence in his abilities and leaned toward believing he had done it right.

  The phrase, “Stay off comms” also indicated that the crew was continuing to exercise good radio discipline.

  Using his right hand to hold the rifle level near the spot where the tarp was moving, he used his left hand to find the personal mobile radio. With his thumb and forefinger he turned the button from off to on. Next, he located the transmit button and pressed and held it in position. He was transmitting.

  Meanwhile, the tarp was nearly off. One tie was loose and the next tie was about to be completely removed. He saw the tarp go from taut to slack. A hand reached underneath and began to lift the tarp. Mahegan saw the man’s head begin to lower.

  Even on the far side of the blast with the Ocean Ranger blocking the energy, he felt the blast shock wave surround him. The intensity of the heat also reached him as the cool ocean air suddenly had a searing touch, as if all of the oxygen had been sucked out of a small room.

  The tarp went completely slack. Mahegan heard the man say, “What the hell was that?!”

  “Let’s go!” he heard the other man say. “Move, now!”

  Mahegan reached up and held one end of the tarp so that it would not blow away and reveal his hiding position. He sensed that the man was no longer at the aft end.

  “Man the fifty cal,” said the authoritative voice.

  “Aye,” replied the one who had begun removing the ties. He pictured the man stopping what he was doing and moving to the large fifty-caliber machine gun mounted in the middle of the deck.

  Mahegan felt the engines rumble. The gears shifted. Suddenly, they were near full throttle. The boat pulled away through the ocean at about the time he heard a large secondary explosion, followed by a series of smaller ones.

  “Holy shit. That’s the Ranger,” the fifty-cal man’s voice said, more to himself than anyone else.

  As the Lucky Lindy sped away from the fireballs, Mahegan couldn’t help but assess his handiwork. He moved to the starboard side of the swim platform, water spraying him in the face, and nudged between the Bombard and the boat. He saw the tarp line fluttering in the slipstream of the boat and pulled it in. He tied it to a D-ring on the rear of the boat.

  As he finished, a third large explosion engulfed the entire scene. Both ships were aflame. It appeared to him that Le Concord was sinking.

  Good, he thought.

  Now if I can just make it back to Copperhead.

  Chapter 34

  Mullah Adham was sleeping on his threadbare mattress with a thin sheet to keep himself warm in the fall night air.

  He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. The gore of the beheading made his mind reel back in time to over a year ago. He had been staying in a small madrassa south of Chitral in the Northwest Frontier Province.

  He slept lightly, but peacefully. The Imam and the villagers welcomed his full conversion to Islam. They appreciated even more his use of technology to spread the message and his constant antagonism of the Americans.

  Awaking, he knew it was time. Adham lifted his AK-47 from the prayer mat next to him. Pulling on a tactical vest, he led his four-man team from their Spartan residence to complete their graduation exercise.

  They were outside and moving swiftly past a Pakistani checkpoint guarding the primary trail into the mountains that separate the Northwest Frontier Province, Pakistan, from Nuristan, Afghanistan. Adham knew that the Pashtun tribal affiliations migrated from east to west. He was in primarily friendly territory despite the fact that the British-drawn border, the Durand Line, ran north to south.

  After an hour, his team was safely inside Afghanistan, having reached Commander Hoxha’s compound north of the Kunar River. Not far from this location was a small American outpost manned by an American rifle platoon and a partner unit from the Afghan Army. Altogether, they held a total of about forty soldiers.

  Adham longed for the bona fides that would come with combat. He was tired of taunting and mocking the Americans from his virtual nest in Pakistan. As they arrived at Hoxha’s compound, Adham directed his men to help the guards outside while he spoke with his friend inside.

  “Welcome, Mullah,” Hoxha said. “You have traveled a long way. I have food and drink.”

  “You are kind, commander. First, I would like to see the intelligence on the American base. I understand you have scouted this position at length.”

  They sat at a table as Hoxha extracted a hand-drawn map from a stack of papers. The interior of the adobe house was modest: mud walls, sticks for firewood, a smoldering fire, and the occasional piece of handmade furniture. Two large rugs covered the floors of the rooms at ground level. It smelled of wood smoke and goat meat.

  Hoxha saw Adham eyeing the rug beneath their feet.

  “Beautiful, yes?”

  “Yes, of course, commander.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  Adham processed the coy remark and immediately knew there was an escape tunnel beneath. He saw the commander’s AK-74 leaning against the far wall by the rear door. The life of a warrior, Adham thought. He felt a surge of pride for what he had been doing, helping these frontier men carve out a living amid international turmoil.

  “Now, as I understand your mission—”

  They both heard something fall outside. Other sounds penetrated the night, hissing noises, like bullets flying.

  Adham watched Hoxha, a hardened combat veteran, peel back the carpet, hand him a remote control and a cell phone, and point at the trapdoor, saying, “Down here, mullah. If I call you, press the remote.”

  Adham did as instructed and as he lowered into darkness beneath the house, he saw Hoxha snatch his cell phone and AK-74 as he yanked a tactical vest over his head.

  Moving along the tunnel, Adham figured the farther he could get from the entrance, the better. He could hear muted sounds of combat, shouting and rifle shots mostly. He made a turn in the tunnel and braced against the dirt wall.

  Then, inexplicably, he heard the trapdoor open. He was about fifty meters from the opening when he heard an American voice shout, “Tunnel!”

  He saw flashlights crisscrossing, moving toward him. He gripped the cell phone and remote tightly, his AK-47 hanging across his chest.
Despite all his daydreams and anger, he was suddenly unsure if he could kill a human being up close.

  The soldiers were so close he could hear the commands through their radios. He heard, “Out of the house! Down!”

  That was when his phone lit up with a call. He fumbled with the cell phone and the remote, but managed to press the button as instructed.

  One of the soldiers said, “Fuck.” Adham heard something ripped open and then a metallic click, but more like a fork hitting crystal. The ping resonated in his ears until the entire tunnel exploded.

  His next memory was awaking in a metal container.

  After what he guessed was a few hours, he saw daylight seeping through the cracks in the container’s skin and heard voices outside. A door opened and two men entered and then closed the door behind them. They were carrying rucksacks, which he assumed were filled with torture equipment such as pliers, scalpels, and the like.

  He was wrong. The first man wore a goatee and an earring. The man smiled at him as he pulled out a device that looked like a FedEx box scanner.

  “Need a fingerprint,” the man said. His partner looked Afghan, perhaps from somewhere north where the Russians were. Maybe he was an interpreter, Adham figured. They were wearing black jumpsuits with the image of a fanged serpent on their shoulders.

  Adham played like he didn’t understand English, and the man with the earring and goatee placed his hand on the machine, pressing down on the forefinger to punch a button, which made a small light come on, blinking as if on a small fax machine.

  “Sit down,” the goatee man said.

  Adham wondered if his fingerprints were anywhere in the American database. He assumed that the FBI still had his information.