Deadly Coast (12 page)

“Five papas down in the passageway, two in the stairwell. Round ‘em up, Sergeant,” Blake said into the phone.

The doors from the mess rooms opened and the black-clad Russians emerged, the helmet-mounted night-vision goggles flipped down over their gas masks, giving them the appearance of large black insects. Within seconds they bound the pirates’ hands with plastic cuffs and covered their eyes with duct tape. Blake watched as the Russians dragged the pirates back into the relatively fresher air of the officers’ mess room and shut the door. The light on Blake’s phone flashed, and he picked it up.

“All secure,” the Russian said, his voice muffled by the mask.

“Acknowledged,” Blake said. “Tell your guys to secure their night-vision glasses, and I’ll turn the lights back on and start ventilation to clear out the deckhouse. The papa in the boat can’t be allowed to escape. I’ll try to draw him closer, but if you can’t take him alive, make sure he doesn’t get away. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“OK, stand by,” said Blake, as he turned the selector switch on the phone.

“Engine side, Chief speaking.”

“Stop her, Chief,” Blake said.

“Stop, aye” came the reply.

Blake heard and felt the big engine rumbling to a stop as he ordered the rudder amidships. He switched cameras again to gaze at the pirate launch, keeping station a hundred yards away on his port side. He willed the pirate closer to the ship.

Five minutes later, Blake watched in the monitor as the Russians crept up the starboard side of the main deck toward the midships pipe manifold. He switched the other monitor to the camera on the port bridge wing, which gave him a clear view of the port side of the ship, and watched the pirate, apparently encouraged by the ship’s loss of speed, maneuver the boat closer until he was too close to see the main deck above him.

The Russians worked their way across the deck from starboard to port and stopped well short of the rail. The young sergeant crept forward alone, keeping low, until he was close enough to peek over the rail with a hand-held periscope. He spotted the pirate and drew back, repositioning his men with a series of hand signals. When satisfied with their placement, he gave another signal, and six men charged the rail as one, spraying the Zodiac with automatic fire.

Three Russians concentrated on the idling outboard, and it coughed to a stop, riddled with holes and belching smoke. The remaining three men targeted the craft’s starboard inflation tube and shredded it, as the terrified pirate crouched in what was left of his boat, clinging to the still-intact port side. Blake saw the man raise his head cautiously and then raise one hand over his head while he used his other to jettison weapons that lay awash in the boat. A line snaked out from the main deck and landed across the boat, and the pirate grabbed it and was hauled aboard and secured, none too gently. Blake heaved a sigh of relief and dialed the phone.

“Engine side, Chief speaking.”

“We got ‘em, Chief,” Blake said. “I’m going back to the bridge and we’ll switch back to normal running.”

“Roger that. How many did we get?”

“Eight,” Blake replied.

“It’s a start,” said the chief.

“That it is,” said Blake. “That it is.”

Chapter Twelve

Drillship Ocean Goliath
Arabian Sea
123 miles from the coast of Oman

Mukhtar watched over the operator’s shoulder as the man stared into the monitor and directed the little ROV over the seabed. It was cool in the air-conditioned control room, but sweat beaded the man’s forehead and formed dark circles under the arms of his khaki shirt. Mukhtar rested his hand on the operator’s shoulder and smiled as the man flinched.

“Move to the left,” said Mukhtar, pointing on the monitor that displayed the camera feed from the ROV. “There.”

Sure enough, as the ROV moved closer to the area he’d indicated, the objects came into focus: small gas cylinders half buried in silt.

“Good,” Mukhtar said. “Gather them.”

The operator nodded and engaged a joystick, and a robotic arm came into camera view, plucking cylinders from the silt to put them in the front basket on the ROV.

“Six,” the operator said. “The basket’s full. We’ll have to bring her up.”

“All right,” said Mukhtar. “But get it back down as soon as possible. Gather as many of the cylinders as you can.” The operator nodded, and Mukhtar left the control room, stopping on the way out to admonish his two men on duty to keep an eye on the infidels and summon him if anything looked suspicious.

He moved from the deckhouse to stand by the rail on the open deck, the outside temperature more to his liking. He gazed out to sea, assessing his situation. The prize was in reach, but it had been a long, hard path. One he’d hardly chosen.

Like others in the far-flung Somali diaspora, he’d left his afflicted land a student with high hopes of bettering himself. What he’d found in the UK, and later in Europe, was hatred and prejudice, both for the color of his skin and his religion. And though he’d never been there, by all accounts the US was even worse.

Oh, they spoke fine words of tolerance and equality, but eyes tracked him everywhere, even when he was in Western dress. Eyes that spoke eloquently, if silently. What are you doing here? You’re not one of us. Go back to where you belong.

And so he had, but not before wandering Europe and working menial jobs, always the outsider. In time, he learned to become invisible. As a man, he was a foreign threat; as a fawning, obsequious servant, he was unremarkable and unthreatening.

He studied the ways of these people, so different from the clan system of his home. He met with others of the True Faith—some Somali, some not—in mosques and coffee shops, and they commiserated over their lives and the lack of respect for their faith and culture. He ended his European trek in Germany, becoming ever surer with each passing month that Islam could never coexist with the infidels. How ironic it was to reach that understanding in the country that had done so much to eradicate the hated Jews. Contrary to popular wisdom, the enemy of his enemy was not always his friend.

There in Germany, Allah had first set Mukhtar’s feet on the true path. He’d worked as an orderly in a hospice—another job no one wanted—wiping the asses of the dying and listening to the drug-induced revelations of the medicated. The old man had been blind, just another lump of wasted flesh with no visitors, stubbornly refusing to die. But his rambling rants against the Jews had been interesting, as had the discovery this human husk had once been a doctor in the Waffen SS.

The real revelation had been a deathbed tale of regret, a story of a submarine going down with a cargo of nerve gas—a gas so potent it would have changed the course of that long-ago war. Intrigued, Mukhtar’s research revealed
U-859
had indeed sunk after torpedoing an American ship. He speculated as to the value of such nerve gas to the jihad, but ultimately lost interest. What good was a weapon on the ocean bottom, over twenty-five hundred meters deep?

By the time he returned to Somalia, Mukhtar was a dedicated jihadist. He joined al-Shabaab and rose through its ranks, and daydreamed no more of
U-859
and her cargo of nerve gas. Until, that is, he saw the press release from the flamboyant and extravagantly rich playboy Sheik Mustafa of Oman announcing purchase of the salvage rights on the SS
John Barry
, the very ship sunk by
U-859
.

Historical accounts said
U-859
had been sunk after torpedoing the
John Barry
, so after
Ocean Goliath
located the Liberty ship, finding
U-859
had been child’s play. And as he’d hoped, the sub had cracked open like an egg when she hit the bottom and littered the sea floor with her cargo. They found gas cylinders almost immediately. He sighed. If only the rest of it had been as easy.

He’d expected some deterioration, given the time involved, but he’d hoped for better results. When he’d dressed one of his men in the chemical suit and had him test the gas on a hostage, the results were hardly promising. Of the first six cylinders salvaged, five had been duds. His man had opened the gas in the hostage’s face, and the first three cylinders produced a puff of white powder with no discernible impact. The gas was still potent in the fourth cylinder and the hostage died, but testing of the last two cylinders on a new victim produced the same white powder and no results. He’d thrown the live hostage back with the others and contemplated his next move.

He’d no choice but to salvage as many of the cylinders as possible. Once they got the cylinders to a lab, he could harvest and concentrate the gas that was still effective. But it was all going to take time—more time than he’d allotted. He had the tool pusher making daily reports, and to those ashore, the salvage operation appeared to be proceeding normally. However, he could never tell when the sheik might visit.

He had to scoop up all the cylinders quickly and move the drillship back over the
John Barry
. They’d then take the gas cylinders, loot the silver, kill the crew, and leave. Investigators would find a ship looted for her treasure. No one would know of the gas—until they found out about it in a most unpleasant manner.

Mukhtar sighed. One thing at a time. First, he had to collect all the cylinders.

CIA headquarters
Maritime Threat Assessment
Langley, VA

“You’re sure about this?” Ward asked for the third time.

“As sure as I can be,” the analyst replied. “He’s used the phone twice. The message was scrambled, but it’s definitely this guy Mukhtar’s phone.”

Ward fell silent for a moment and studied the chart on the conference table as he stroked his chin. “And what’s he doing on a drillship?”

“More to the point,” the analyst said, indicating two positions marked on the chart, “why did the drillship move after he got onboard?”

“What’ve you got on her?” Ward asked.

The analyst shuffled some papers. “Let’s see. The
Ocean Goliath
. Owned by Emerald Offshore Drilling, Houston, Texas. Currently on charter to a consortium controlled by Sheik Ali Hassan Mustafa of Oman.”

“What’s the story with the sheik? Is he a radical? Any chance our friend Mukhtar is aboard as an invited guest?” Ward asked.

“Don’t think so,” the analyst said. “Sheik Mustafa is the stereotypical rich-playboy type, educated in the UK, hobnobs with the glitterati, the whole nine yards. All the financial checks come up clean as far as funding suspect charities and similar activities.” He shrugged. “He’s a rich dickhead, but an unlikely terrorist.”

“So what’s the connection then?” Ward persisted. “Our friend Mukhtar is hijacking a drilling operation? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s more of a treasure hunt.” The analyst slid a press release across the table. Ward picked it up and saw a picture of the smiling sheik holding up a model of a World War II Liberty ship. The press release ran several pages.

“Give me the high points,” Ward said.

“The SS
John Barry
was en route to Iran with military supplies for Russia with a scheduled port call in Saudi Arabia, where she was to offload three million silver
riyals
minted in Philadelphia for the Saudi government. She never made it. On 28 August 1944, she was torpedoed by
U-859
, which was in turn sunk by a British fighter shadowing the
John Barry
. The sheik and his partners are after the silver.”

Ward looked skeptical. “So how much are three million riyals worth today?”

“It’s not the riyals, it’s the silver. It was worth about half a million bucks in 1944, but silver was eighteen cents an ounce. Now, it’s over thirty bucks an ounce, so the coins are worth between ninety and a hundred million for the silver content. But that’s not the whole story. There were persistent rumors that
John Barry
was carrying a secret cargo of another twenty-six million dollars of uncoined silver bullion, and that’s at 1944 silver prices.”

Ward let out a low whistle. “How much is that worth?”

“At today’s silver prices? Several billion—with a
b
—dollars.”

“So let me get this straight,” said Ward. “You’re telling me the location of this wreck has been known for over sixty years, and no one’s gone after it?”

“Too deep,” the analyst replied. “It’s in over eighty-five hundred feet of water, and silver’s heavy. No one ever figured out how to salvage it before now. And it’s not a cheap operation—the average day rate on a drillship like
Ocean Goliath
is almost a half million bucks. It took someone with deep pockets and an appetite for risk to even consider it. Remember, the only
verified
treasure is the coins.”

“But an al-Shabaab connection still doesn’t make sense,” Ward said. “Even if there is a fortune in silver and this Mukhtar guy loots it, he’s still got to turn it into something he can use to fund his operation, and I don’t think converting that much silver to cash can be done under the radar.” Ward stroked his chin and looked back down at the chart. “You said the ship moved sometime after Mukhtar went aboard. What do you make of that?”

The analyst shrugged. “Could be any number of legitimate reasons. The wreck might be in two or more pieces, or maybe they missed it on the first try and are trying another position.”

“How long were they in the first position?” Ward asked.

The analyst shuffled through various satellite photos until he found the one he wanted. “Ten days.”

“Sounds like they were already where they wanted to be,” Ward said. “So what else could draw our friend Mukhtar’s interest?”

“The only wreck that’s even close is the sub.”

“The submarine,” Ward said. “Get me everything you can on this
U-859
.”

Two hours later, Ward sat fidgeting at his desk, trying to get some work done as he stole glances at his phone. He answered it on the first ring.

“Ward.”

“
U-859
. Keel laid in Bremen, Germany, in 1942. She was delivered to the
Kriegsmarine
in 1943 and assigned to the
Monsun Gruppe
, or ‘Monsoon Group,’ to operate in the Far East alongside the Imperial Japanese Navy. She was a Type IXD2 U-boat, fitted with a snorkel to enable extensive underwater operation during the passage from Kiel, Germany, to her Far East base at Penang, Malaysia.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” said Ward. “Did you get anything that might be of actual use?”

“Look, Ward. There’s not a lot there, OK?”

But there was more; Ward could sense it in the analyst’s voice. He was just waiting for Ward to be properly appreciative.

Ward sighed. “OK, Joe. I know you’re about to hit me with an ‘oh, by the way.’ I can hear it in your voice. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”

He could picture the analyst smiling.

“Oh, by the way,” the man said. “There was one survivor from the sub.”

“So what?” Ward replied. “I’m supposed to fly to Germany and interview a ninety-year-old Kraut, presuming he’s even alive?”

“Japanese, actually,” said the analyst. “He’s ninety-four and lives in Frederick, Maryland. Would you like his address?”

Imamura residence
112 Shady Oak Lane
Frederick, Maryland

Jesse Ward drove down the quiet tree-lined street of well-maintained older homes set on large, immaculately landscaped lots—the American dream. The irritating mechanical voice of the GPS jarred him from his reverie.

“Arriving … at … one … twelve … Shady … Oak … Lane … on … right.”

Ward pulled into the long drive and down toward a large detached garage set back some distance from the house. He stopped beside the house and got out, feigning an exaggerated stretch as he looked around. From his vantage point, he could see a manicured front lawn, complemented by an even larger area behind the house, dominated by a well-tended vegetable garden. He turned and started for the front door when he was hailed from the backyard.

“Agent Ward?”

He turned to see a small bespectacled man moving out of the vegetable garden, clad in a plaid work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. There was dirt on the knees of his well-worn jeans, and a straw hat was perched on his head, its broad brim hiding his face in shadow. He pulled off a pair of work gloves and dropped them to the ground at the edge of the garden as he continued toward Ward. He was bent with age and moved with arthritic slowness, leaning on a cane.

“Dr. Imamura?” asked Ward.

“Please, call me Yoshi,” said the man, with the slightest trace of an accent. “I have not doctored anyone in some time.” He smiled before gesturing to the garden. “Except, of course, my poor plants, who have no choice in the matter.”

Ward followed the doctor’s gaze. “It’s a beautiful garden.”

“My wife’s passion.” Imamura’s smile turned wistful. “She got me interested in it after I retired. I lost her some years ago to cancer, but somehow, with my hands in the dirt I often feel she is still here, just out of sight in the next row. “ He looked back at Ward. “But I don’t think you came from Langley to listen to the maudlin ramblings of a very old man. Come. Let’s sit on the patio and you can tell me what I can do for the CIA.”