First Strike (23 page)

The reconnaissance of Susan and Zoe Raditz had to be handled delicately. At this point, they were the only link to a cell of terrorists on U.S. soil. If it was not done correctly, they could run or not cooperate, and the last thing Calibrisi wanted to do was strap either of them to a machine like the one Raditz was currently attached to. But he would.

Even more important, the fact that a cell was on U.S. soil was explosive information, the kind of thing an ambitious FBI agent might feel compelled to leak to a reporter or member of Congress.

Calibrisi also worried about his Montreal chief of station, Charlie Couture. There was no question Couture could get the job done. He was one of the most trustworthy agents Calibrisi had. But he could be a little rough around the edges.

The phone beeped several times, then the voice of the CENCOM operator came on the line.

“This is CENCOM four two four, encryption protocol Panama Epsilon. Director Calibrisi, you're live.”

“General Krug,” said Calibrisi, “you have me and Tammy Krutchkoff from the CIA.”

“Hi, Hector. What's going on?

Just then, Calibrisi's cell phone vibrated with a text from Kratovil at the FBI. The number flashed across the screen.

“We have a ship somewhere in the Mediterranean or on its way to the Mediterranean that needs to be stopped. It's a container ship out of Mexico and it's loaded with weapons on their way to Syria, and not the good guys either.”

“What does loaded mean?”

“Almost a billion dollars' worth of guns, missiles, ammo.”

Krug whistled. “That's a big shipment. Do you know where it is?”

“That's why Tammy is on the line,” said Calibrisi. “Tammy, can we pinpoint a SAT phone by its number?”

“Depends,” said Krutchkoff. “The answer is usually yes; all SAT phones have some sort of GPS. But the scrambling technology is changing every day. Whose phone is it?”

“The ship captain.”

“Is he friendly?”

“Why?”

“Because we could call. If he answers, it enables us to go around certain encryption layers.”

“Assume he's not friendly.”

“Then it'll be harder. He won't answer. He knows he should only return calls. Second, if he's been operating in a conflict theater like the MED, he's going to be sophisticated enough to have invested in some cutting-edge encryption. He could be tough to find. Do you have the number?”

“I'm texting it to you right now,” said Calibrisi, typing and shooting Krutchkoff the text.

“We'll get working on it.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Krug. “You want me to sink it?”

“No, not yet. Just lock it down.”

 

30

MEDITERRANEAN SEA

The container ship was moving at a brisk twenty-eight-knot clip across the Mediterranean. Since departing Mexico, Miguel had pushed the ship to its maximum speed and not let up. Other than a brief but violent rainstorm somewhere in the Atlantic, it had been smooth sailing.

That didn't mean Miguel had enjoyed it. To the contrary. Raditz's last words had left an indelible sense of anxiety.

“
I wouldn't come back, not if you value your life.
”

Miguel had moved all kinds of illegal cargo in his long, lucrative career. In fact, for more than two decades he hadn't moved anything that wasn't against the law. Moving legal cargo simply didn't pay very well. But he couldn't recall feeling such a sense of dread as he did the day he shoved out of Tampico. His first large shipment of cocaine, from Cartagena to Sicily, had been stressful, but not like this.

Miguel's ship was a converted oil tanker built in 1957. It was 662 feet long and piled high with containers, a so-called feeder ship. It was one of three vessels he owned. All the boats shared a few similarities. They were rusted and old. The names had long ago faded. And they had been bought after bankruptcies of their former owners. The truth is, there were more ships than people able to captain them. There were literally thousands of abandoned ships throughout the world, some in dry dock waiting for a better day, others rotting husks on rocks and remote shores, near towns few had ever been to in places like Poland, Ukraine, in virtually every country in Africa with coastline, and all over South and Central America.

There were seven crewmen aboard with him. It was low, even by the loose standards of that part of the shipping world his dilapidated, ugly old boat trafficked in. But seven was enough. He'd made more than a hundred transatlantic crossings in his career and knew what he needed. His men were known to him, handpicked, well-paid, trusted to do their jobs and keep quiet.

Earlier that day, Miguel had taken the helm through the Strait of Gibraltar, entrance to the Mediterranean. It was clear enough to see—with the help of powerful binoculars—the Morocco Rock to the south. He could sense land, the smell of the earth, a salt aroma from the fishing ports. Now, at night, the lights of Spain were visible off the port side of the ship. Algeria was visible to the south, Tangier glowing orange in the far distance. Miguel loved the Mediterranean on nights like this. He'd experienced the same ocean at its worst, storms of seventy-knot winds and ocean swells twenty feet high. He had been across virtually every known shipping lane, and it was the Med that had given him the greatest highs and the worst lows. Tonight, the black water was like glass.

Part of him wished it was a rougher sea. It would've taken his mind off the job at hand. He hated the Middle East and especially Syrians. The fact that he was delivering the guns to ISIS made it a hundred times worse. They were evil. He'd seen it in their eyes on the two other occasions he'd brought cargo to them. He knew that it was only the fact that they might need him in the future that kept him alive. Now, it actually was the last shipment, according to Raditz. What if the people from ISIS knew this as well? It would mean he and his crew were expendable after the ship reached port. The terrorists would simply kill them all and unload the boat.

On the other hand, if he didn't make the delivery, he'd never see his money. Raditz had made sure of that. As with Raditz's prior shipments, the anonymous banker needed confirmation, in this case a signature from Nazir himself, that the weapons had arrived.

Miguel cued the radio. “Sammy, come here.”

A few minutes later, a short older man entered the bridge.

“Take the helm,” Miguel said.

“Yes, boss.”

Miguel walked out onto the bridge, beneath a cloudless sky. In front of him and behind him he could see the lights of other ships. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing.

His eyes moved to the water on the starboard side of the ship—then the gunnel. What he saw caused him to gasp. In one frightening, mesmerizing moment, a swarm of black figures appeared along the edge of the ship. In the dim light of the deck, he could see black rubber covering each man, glistening with water that shimmered in the low light. The cigarette dropped from his mouth as he turned and ran.

Miguel charged toward the bridge. Inside was his pistol. But as he neared the open door, he heard the click of a weapon. It was close by. Close enough to hear the friction of metal as a bullet was chambered.

“Don't move,” came the voice.

American.

Hidden by the shadows, Miguel made out two men—commandos—dressed in all black tactical gear, dripping water on the deck. How long had they been there?

The man speaking held a short rifle with a silencer jutting from the muzzle, aimed at Miguel's head. The other man signaled silently to the others with his left hand as, with his right, he swept his weapon in a 270-degree arc behind the first commando.

Miguel raised his arms.

“Get down on the ground on your stomach, arms behind your back,” the gunman said calmly.

Miguel got to his knees and dropped onto his stomach.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The gunman said nothing. Instead he pulled a pair of flex-cuffs from his belt and tied Miguel's hands together.

As Miguel felt the cold steel of the bridge against his cheek, he listened.

“Aegis Formation, this is Ryan, Lion Team One. We have the target secure. Repeat, we are on board the boat and have the CON.
Over.
”

 

31

OVAL OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

On the ride back from Chantilly, Calibrisi briefed the president and the National Security Council on the Raditz interrogation. The meeting was already under way when he walked into the Oval Office.

President Dellenbaugh, seated on one of the sofas, had returned from Andrews Air Force Base, where he had been about to take off on a three-day campaign swing through New England, campaigning for various congressional and Senate candidates. Amy Dellenbaugh, in the middle of a doubles match at Bethesda Country Club, had hastily forfeited the match, then been choppered to Andrews in order to fill in for her husband.

Most presidents would've welcomed the change of plans. Three days on the campaign trail meant more speaking than a man was supposed to do, pastries, lobster rolls, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, donuts, every hour or two, in front of local photographers clamoring for a shot of the president doing the local shtick. It meant random harangues by angry citizens about this tax or that bill, most of which Dellenbaugh had as much to do with as they did. And yet, Dellenbaugh was disappointed. He loved the campaign trail the way a runner loves the course or the hunter the woods.

But there was no choice. Raditz and the arms-for-influence program—more than a billion and a half dollars and counting—threatened the very presidency. Whatever progress had been made in working with Islamic countries in the Middle East to stomp out Islamic terrorism would be gone if the information got out, which it would. But what weighed on Dellenbaugh's mind was not his job.

Calibrisi looked slightly ashen as he walked into the Oval Office. Seated on two large tan leather Chesterfield sofas were Dellenbaugh, Bill Polk, Secretary of State Tim Lindsay, Arden Mason, head of homeland security, National Security Advisor Josh Brubaker, White House Communications Director John Schmidt, and Harry Black, secretary of defense.

“Hi, everyone,” said Calibrisi, sitting down in one of two red velvet wing chairs at the end of the Chesterfields. “Sorry I'm late.”

Dellenbaugh looked at Calibrisi. “Where's Dewey?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

“If he's dead, I will authorize the entire United States military to go in and retrieve his body,” said Dellenbaugh. “And if he's alive, God forbid…”

Dellenbaugh paused, momentarily flummoxed with emotion.

“They're
not
cutting his head off, Hector,” Dellenbaugh said. “We can't let that happen.”

“A decorated Special Forces soldier, an American one, getting executed,” said Schmidt, shaking his head. “That would be a fucking disaster.”

Dellenbaugh shot Schmidt a hard look.

“
I'm not talking about the goddam PR!
” yelled Dellenbaugh, his face red, slamming his fist on the coffee table, causing his coffee cup to spill. “I'm talking about Dewey. He—of all people—doesn't deserve it!
Goddammit!
All I want to know right now is how the hell are we getting him out of there!”

Calibrisi nodded. He was silent for several moments, trying to rein in his own emotions. Slowly, he started to shake his head, but he didn't say anything.

The room went quiet for a long, pregnant pause.

Finally, it was Polk who spoke up.

“Dewey's a big boy,” he said calmly. “If he could hear you all now, he'd be laughing. He'll be fine, trust me. Frankly, if they were smart they would've shot him already. In which case, he ain't gonna have his head chopped off. If they were stupid enough the keep him alive? Well, all I can say is, my money's on Dewey.”

Calibrisi's eyes met Polk's.

“So basically let him fend for himself?” barked Dellenbaugh.

“No, of course not, Mr. President,” said Polk. “He was brought into Syria by the Israelis. I spoke with Menachem Dayan half an hour ago. He's mobilized a couple of teams from Shayetet 13 and Sayeret Metkal. Kohl Meir is running the operation.”

Dellenbaugh looked at Harry Black. “Have we located the ship, Mr. Secretary?”

“Yes, sir,” said Black. “Less than two hours ago, a team of SEALs took control of the ship in the Mediterranean. The ship is now in international waters and is under lockdown. We have an Aegis destroyer within sight line of the boat. In addition, the captain and crew are cooperating. They're not going anywhere, Mr. President.”

“Harry,” said the president, “what is the scale of the shipment in terms of the civil war?”

“I don't follow, sir.”

“What would have happened if we hadn't caught the shipment? If it had been delivered.”

Black let out a whistle and pulled his glasses from his head.

“This is almost nine hundred million dollars' worth of guns, bullets, and shoulder-fired missiles. Nothing fancy, just a ton of it. It's all Mexican, copies, and cheap. If it was American-made, we're talking about two billion dollars' worth of firepower.”

Black paused.

“ISIS is already sweeping across Syria,” he continued. “They control major parts of Iraq. They have an unlimited supply of fresh soldiers. Mr. President, if this shipment were delivered, ISIS would have strategic advantage. They'd control all of Syria and about half of Iraq. They'd have a country.”

Calibrisi spoke up.

“They would also control a petroleum supply sufficient to ensure long-term stability. Permanence. It would be the straw that broke the camel's back in that region, sir. If we thought the last decade was hard, with a madman like Nazir presiding over a well-resourced state, we would enter a new era. Once he stabilized Syria and Iraq, we would have to anticipate more aggression, more terror, and the possibility of a wider arc of jihadist influence. Israel, Jordan, Kuwait, even Iran. Just as Hitler did, Nazir would try to expand his reach—and quickly. It could be Jordan, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia—even Israel.”