Sandy looked so beautiful, so peaceful Jake
couldn’t bear to wake her. It was six o’clock and time for Sandy’s watch. He
had climbed down from the cockpit and peeked into the aft cabin. Sandy’s hair
spilled across the pillow like a lioness’ tawny mane. The soft predawn light
made her skin glow. He studied the rise and fall of her breathing and felt so
happy his heart ached.
They
had settled into a routine. He took the nine o’clock to midnight watch. Sandy
took midnight to three o’clock. He relieved her for the three o’clock to six
watch. Then he would wake her and they would cuddle in the cockpit together,
drink coffee and watch the sunrise. Daytime naps made up for some sleep lost
each night. They were three and a half days out of Georgetown in the Exuma
Islands of the Bahamas sailing to Bermuda.
He
had nothing to compare with, but the last two and a half months had to be best
honeymoon ever. Except, we aren’t married. Maybe I should do
something about that. I don’t want to screw up this time, and I don’t want to
lose her again.
His
first sight of Sandy walking on Palm Beach, long tanned legs striding, shoulder
length blond hair dancing in the breeze, and cornflower blue eyes set wide in a
strong boned yet feminine face, made his heart skip a beat. If it wasn’t love
at first sight, it was more than fascination. He had been a commitment phobic
serial womanizer, but soon decided he had found the love of his life. Sandy was
a recent widow searching for the independent person she used to be.
For
three months, they were inseparable. He followed her from Palm Beach to her
beach house on Sullivan’s Island in South Carolina. Then he lost her, or
thought he had. She had issues with his activities as a federal agent that had
often required him to perform dangerous and bloody missions. She feared
commitment as well. When she finally decided she wanted him back, he was
already embroiled in the investigation of a friend’s murder and infatuated with
another woman. What followed would have made a great plot for one of his
romance novels.
After
the horror of being shot, saving the other woman from kidnappers, and settling
old scores with the leader of the Houston branch of the drug gang MS-13, he and
Sandy reconciled. They sailed from Hilton Head, South Carolina to Jacksonville,
Florida and spent a week motoring down the Intracoastal to West Palm Beach.
Walking the beach where they first met, hand in hand, as they had six months
before, was an emotional homecoming.
With
stops on Grand Bahama, two anchorages in the Berry’s, Nassau, Warderick Wells,
Big Major and Farmer’s Cay, they sailed to Georgetown in the Exumas and
anchored a half mile south of Volleyball Beach and the St. Francis Yacht Club
off Stocking Island. He chose the spot for a balance of proximity and privacy.
They were still only a short dinghy ride away from all the socializing and fun
the cruising community cooked up daily, yet far enough away not to be bothered
when they wanted to be alone. His old friends Bill and Janice Townsend kidded
them about disappearing from the social scene for days on end.
Now
they were on their way to the Chesapeake via Bermuda, planning to arrive in
plenty of time to attend Samantha and Bobby’s wedding in Alexandria, Virginia.
Samantha Barker and Bobby Gulakowski were the DEA and ICE agents who helped him
bust the gang distributing cocaine between Savannah and Charleston. It still
amazed him that somehow, amid the murders and gun battles, Samantha and Bobby
managed to fall madly in love.
He
smiled as he studied Sandy’s sleeping face. I am so frigging lucky.
Quietly, he slipped back up the companionway to the cockpit.
MONDAY, MAY 3, 2010
MEXICO
CITY, MEXICO
As was his habit, Captain Carlos
Guttierez ate his lunch alone under the big canopy of Café Corazón. He considered
his good fortune. His last assignment was in the garrison at Matamoros across
the Texas border from the city of Brownsville. It was a horrible place to spend
the first two years of married life. He had been a platoon leader and it was
dangerous work. Over the course his assignment, his platoon had saved two
kidnapping victims and gotten credit for several spectacular drug busts.
Despite living in constant fear of reprisals from the drug cartels, he had kept
his nose clean and he and his wife survived. Finally, a year before, his good
work paid off. He received a promotion to captain and a plum assignment as an
army liaison to Universidad Autónoma de la Ciudad de México.
I
love this city. I love its energy.
Living here quieted his wife’s fears. She finally felt secure and the birth of
little Carlos soon followed. His world now revolved around his wife and son. It
also helped that his captain’s pay eased the impossible financial difficulty of
supporting a family on paltry lieutenant’s pay. His job at the University let
him rub elbows with powerful men in the Army too. He was a man on the way up,
someone destined for bigger things.
The
traffic on La Avenida de la Universidad, the bustle of people passing on
the broad sidewalk, the hum of conversation and admiring glances from fellow
diners, all energized him.
MONDAY, MAY 3, 2010
32° 9´ N - 64° 54´ E
SOUTHWEST
OF BERMUDA
The gurgle of the sea rushing past the hull
and the sun’s rays flickering through a portlight across her face stirred Sandy
Carlisle to wakefulness. She reached for the teak grab-handle mounted on the
ceiling and levered herself out of the big aft berth. She paused in the head to
brush her teeth. In the galley, she opened the gas valve, lit the stove and put
on a pot of water. She shouted up the companionway, “Coffee?”
“Please,”
Jake said from the cockpit.
Jake
likes his black.
She put three scoops of instant into a mug inscribed “Captain” and two scoops
of instant, a half teaspoon of sugar and three ounces of cream into one with
“Admiral” on it. When the pot started to whistle she poured in the steaming
water and gave each mug a quick swirl with a spoon. She slipped on the life
preserver she had left hanging on its hook four hours before and cautiously
climbed the companionway with both cups in her left hand.
“Was
this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of
Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss,” Jake said as she emerged
into the cockpit and put his captain’s mug into the cup holder by the helm.
She
laughed and kissed him. She snuggled into his arms. Jake ran his hands under
her sweatshirt and dug his fingers deep into the muscles of her back and up and
down her spine. Playfully his hands crept around her sides to cup her breasts.
“Umm,” she purred raising her arms, arching her back and stretching to his
touch. “You let me oversleep. It’s almost seven. I missed the sunrise.”
Nele sailed along under a
single-reefed main and full genny, guided only by the windvane they had
nicknamed “Georgette” on a course of roughly fifty-five degrees.
Jake
said, “Georgette handled all the steering for me, and you looked so peaceful I
couldn’t wake you. I have a present for you, though. Look off the port bow.”
She
broke their embrace, leaned out of the cockpit and squinted into the rising
sun. She spied a gathering of low clouds with a hazy dark line beneath them in
the distance. “Land! That’s Bermuda.”
“Either
that or Mr. Garmin has us terribly lost.”
“How
much longer until we get into port?”
“We’re
still six to seven miles from the southwest corner of the island. We have to
sail the full fifteen-mile length of the island, then into St. Georges Harbor.
We have a little more than four hours to go at this speed,” Jake said.
“I
was just getting into the rhythm of living at sea,” she said, “getting used to
the midnight to three o’clock watch and napping and reading during the day.” It
has been almost four days since we left Stocking Island. The wind filled in
from the southeast for a wonderful beam reach like our weather guy Herb
Hilgenberg said it would. The time has flown. Except for that one squall, it’s
been fun.
“Hey,
we can keep going. It’s only another ten or twelve days to the Azores,” Jake
said tongue-in-cheek. “We have enough canned goods and water to make it.”
She
punched him in the shoulder and he feigned hurt. “Alex and Sarah are flying in
to meet us next week, and we promised Bobby and Samantha we would make their
wedding in Alexandria next month. You’re screwed, buddy boy.”
“Well
now, since you brought it up, why don’t we let Georgette handle the steering a
while longer and …”
She
punched him in the shoulder again. This time she did it hard and Jake didn’t
have to feign hurt. Then she smiled in the mischievous way she knew Jake would
recognize and scampered down the companionway laughing. She could hear him
following as she climbed back into the big aft berth.
MONDAY, MAY 3, 2010
MEXICO
CITY, MEXICO
We have your wife and child. In
horror, Captain Guttierez read the note the waiter had delivered then clenched
it in his fist. Shaken to his core, he scanned the café for its source. Nothing.
Nothing appeared unusual, yet everything had changed. Other diner’s glances now
held menace. The bustle of the city seemed hostile, each person brushing by on
the broad sidewalk was a threat. He pushed and held the number one on his cell
phone. A raspy, smoke-damaged masculine voice answered, “Now you know it is
true. Tell no one if you want to see your wife and child alive again. No
police. No army. Wait for our call.”
“I
want to speak with my wife,” he demanded.
“You
want to hear your wife?” the raspy voice said angrily. The raspy voice uttered
something in a malevolent tone and he heard his wife’s voice shout, “No.” Then
he heard her scream. The raspy voice said, “Go home. Wait for our call.” The
connection broke.
MONDAY, MAY 3, 2010
ALEXANDRIA,
VIRGINIA
DEA Agent Samantha Barker studied surveillance
photographs, DEA field reports and police reports spread across the kitchen
table in her two-story, redbrick townhome in downtown Alexandria. She knew she
could obsess about her work to the exclusion of all else. She felt a rush of
warmth when she heard her lover, ICE Agent Bobby Gulakowski come home. Bobby
was what had been missing from her life for a long time. A big, solid bear of a
man, Bobby made her feel complete. “In here,” she shouted. Bobby came into the
kitchen, placed his keys and briefcase on the counter, took two wine glasses
out of the pantry and started to pour chilled chardonnay. “No wine for me
tonight,” she said. “I still have work to do.”
“Spoilsport.”
Bobby walked behind her, reached over her shoulder, put down his wine down on
the table and bent to kiss the nape of her neck. Then he stood behind her and
massaged her shoulders. “You need to leave this stuff at the office more
often.”
She
tilted her head forward enjoying Bobby’s touch. “Baltimore has a fresh rash of
OD’s, some new, nearly pure cocaine hitting the market and an escalating drug
war. Higher wants me to get to the bottom of it right away and they assign me
two, a total of two, rookie agents. I’m swamped.”
“Welcome
to management. At ICE when I ask for more resources they usually remind me that
I’m supposed to use local and state agencies as a force multiplier.” Bobby
moved his massage up the back of her neck. “Something has to really hit the fan
before we throw a lot of bodies at it.”
She
tilted her head left and right as Bobby kneaded one side of her neck then the
other. “I’m getting all the state and local police reports in paper and
electronic form, but that’s different than directing the action. Getting
anybody who doesn’t work directly for you to do what you want them to do is
impossible. I know MS-13 is moving into Baltimore and that’s what is driving
the drug war. I know they have a fresh source of supply. I don’t have the
resources to discover who the players are, much less how they are bringing it
in. If I don’t get a lucky break soon, I don’t know how I can take leave for
our honeymoon.”
“Whoa
babe.” Bobby stopped massaging her neck. “You’re putting way too much pressure
on yourself. The world isn’t going to end because we take off for a week.”
“I
know that,” she said. She turned in her chair to hug Bobby around the waist
with her head on his stomach. “I keep seeing the faces of all the kids who have
OD’d. I know the faster I shut this down the fewer there will be.”
“My
wife, the Elliot Ness of the Mara Salvatrucha drug wars,” Bobby said, “I
kinda like that.”
“I
like that too.”
“Being
compared with Elliot Ness?”
“No,
silly,” she stood and reached up to wrap her arms around the big man’s neck. “I
like being called your wife.”
MONDAY, MAY 3, 2010
BALTIMORE,
MARYLAND
In the basement of his Wyman Park townhome
Muhammad Al-Muntazar, the sixth and youngest son of Palestinian
immigrants, and a direct descendant of Mohammed the prophet, brushed his lips
to the floor before him as he completed a raka'ah of his evening Salah,
the ritual prayers he performed five times each day. Muhammad was a tall thin
man with intense hawk-like eyes. He carried himself regally and, after his
direct connection to the prophet, he was most proud of his keen intellect. He
held a BS in applied physics from University of Michigan and an MS and PHD from
Johns Hopkins Whiting School of Engineering. He was an assistant professor of
Applied Nuclear Physics at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.
After
his Salah, Mohammad planned to do some engineering on a more practical
level. He owned a complete Shopsmith system modified to perform metalworking
tasks to precise tolerances. He had grown up around such equipment in his
Dearborn, Michigan home. His father was responsible for several worldwide
patents and had been a highly placed engineer in Palestine before the 1967
Six-Day War with Israel. After the war, his whole family immigrated to the U.
S. and settled into the large Muslim community in Dearborn. Limited English
skills kept his father from finding a job that used his education. At the
suggestion of a cousin, his father joined the United Automobile Workers Union
and settled for a job as a machinist in a Ford Motor Company automobile
assembly plant. Making things from metal became his father’s vocation and
avocation, and as he grew up his father’s skills became his own.
This
night’s metal working task was simple. He had cast three rings from lead. Each
was nine inches in diameter and one and a half inches thick. He needed to drill
a hole precisely three inches in diameter in the center of each ring such that
they could slide easily over a metal tube. He had threaded that tube to accept
a part from a medical imaging device called a neutron generator. The lead rings
were simply dummy rings. He would only use them to test the mechanical
functionality of the device he was building.
MONDAY, MAY 3, 2010
VERACRUZ,
MEXICO
Captain Silvio Cordoba sat alone on the bridge of his
containership, El Aguilar de Mexico. It was dark and he could see
nothing of the transfer taking place on the docks beneath him. The lights of
Mexico’s oldest and most beautiful port city stretched before him.
He
preferred to be on the bridge when these transfers took place. Somehow, he felt
cleaner for not being involved in the actual transfer. All eighteen seaman
aboard knew that they carried contraband. That the ship often made a rendezvous
with cigarette boats and off-loaded a small cargo when they came into American
waters made that much clear, and all hands received a cut of the pay. Silvio’s
cut was by far the largest. Exactly what and how much contraband they carried,
only the four ship’s officers knew.
He
shook his head in mournful penitence. Bless me Father for I have sinned.
He knew what he was doing was wrong and could cost him his job and his life.
I don’t really have a choice. These Salvadorian animals make us choose between
taking their money and having our families killed. He was making a lot of
money, but his wife and family managed to spend it almost as fast as he made
it. Another year, maybe two and I will be able to retire and take my family
somewhere safe. Maybe the United States. I have a sister in San Antonio. He
recognized that he had told himself the same thing two years before, and the
year before that.
TUESDAY, MAY 4, 2010
MEXICO
CITY, MEXICO
Captain Guttierez staggered to the bathroom of his small
two-bedroom apartment, knelt on the floor and vomited into the toilet. He rose
and looked at himself in the mirror. He had dark circles under both eyes and a
pasty, pale cast to his skin. He had not slept. No one has called. The
numbers of kidnappings in Mexico were increasing. It was a primary reason he
and his wife were happy with his assignment to Universidad Autónoma de la
Ciudad de México. Most drug dealing and lawlessness took place along the
states bordering the USA. Places like Matamoros. La Ciudad de Mexico
was supposed to be relatively safe. I am not a rich man. What can they want
with me? Maria must be terrified.
His
empty stomach gnawed at him. He went into the kitchen to get something to eat.
He took a leftover boiled egg and some orange juice from the refrigerator. He
got down the egg, but the first sip of orange juice brought it right back up.
He rushed to the sink and emptied his stomach again. Why am I doing this?
I’m not going to help Maria in this condition. His cell phone rang. He
fumbled drawing it from his pocket and dropped it on the floor. He bent to pick
it up, lost his balance and sat hard on the floor. Finally, sitting there, he
opened his phone. “Captain Guttierez,” he said. “Yes, I know where that is. On
the side facing the volcano. Yes, I understand, no police, no army. 11 AM. Yes,
I will be there.” They didn’t mention money. Madre de Dios, I hope this is
not a reprisal for my successes in Matamoros. What is it they want?
TUESDAY, MAY 4, 2010
ALEXANDRIA,
VIRGINIA
Iman Mukara al Hasim looked up from a stack of
paperwork on his desk to see Muhammad Al-Muntazar standing in his doorway.
Mohammed bowed to him and entered the cubicle. The Imam scowled at his young
protégé. “I told you that we should not meet again my son, especially not here.
This place is watched.”
“I
am just another worshipper come to perform my Salah in the mosque,
father. We are alone,” Muhammed said.
The
Imam let the scowl fall from his face. He knew the young genius worshipped him
as a son and wanted nothing to break that tie. However, he kept a stern tone in
his voice when he said, “Do not do this again my son. You must have no
connection to me, or this place. You are the chosen one. The other things we do
here are as nothing to your purpose.
“I
came only to tell you that the device is ready,” Muhammad murmured with downcast
eyes, hurt by his mentor’s disapproval. “All that remains is to replace the
inert material with …”
“Shhh,”
he commanded, and Mohammad ceased speaking. “We must not speak of this,
especially here. The walls have ears.”
“Here?
Here in the mosque? The infidels dare to invade the mosque?” Righteous anger
flared in Mohammad’s hawk-like gaze.
“Shhh,”
he commanded again. “We have found devices and we sweep daily, but we must be
circumspect. I understand. The first part of your task is finished. Now, I must
complete my part.” He rose, held his protégé by both arms and kissed each of
his cheeks. “You have done well, but you must go now. Become one with the
infidels again. Do not let them see the fire I see in your eyes. You are the
sword, and your time is coming soon. I will call you when all is ready. Do not
return.”
He
watched the heat leave Mohammad’s face as Mohammad regained control. Mohammad
bowed and kissed the back of his hand and turned to leave. “I will see you
again Father, if only in paradise. Allahu Akbar.”
“Go
with God, my son. Allahu Akbar.”
He
walked with Mohammad as far as the curtain that separated the office sections
of the Islamic Center of Alexandria from the areas of worship. To think when
I found him in Dearborn he was just an angry, lonely boy of thirteen. Now he is
a preeminent scholar of the scriptures and the instrument that will strike at
the heart of the Great Satan. He waved as Mohammad left and walked back to
his cubicle to resume the administration of the Alexandria Chapter of Worldwide
Islamic Charities, a federally chartered 501(c)(3) U. S. nonprofit. He looked
at the bank balances on the papers in front of him and smiled in satisfaction. I
collect millions, tax-free, right beneath the noses of the infidels for the
very enemies they seek to destroy. He laughed aloud. Even the faithful
do not know the purposes I find for their money. Stupid Christian foundations,
anxious to show they have no prejudice, add millions more.
His
assistant, Imam Abu Hamari al-Maziri, joined him to plot a delivery of cash to
the compound called Islamtown in upper New York where a band of several hundred
disaffected African Americans, recruited from the graduates of America’s
toughest penal institutions, lived, trained with weapons and studied scripture.
Our black brothers prepare for the day when they too can strike a blow for
Islam in America.
Muhammad
passed from the dim light of the interior of the mosque to the bright sunshine
of the street. He raised his hand to shield his eyes and saw a flash of light
from the window of a parked car fifty yards down the street. A reflection
off binoculars? He gazed toward a blue Ford Crown Victoria. Two men are
in that car. The Imam is right. I should not have come. He quickly
turned his face away and hurried around the street corner to his car.
“Did
you get that guy, Jim? Damn, as soon as he made us, did he look guilty of
something or what?” The man in the driver’s seat of the Crown Victoria lowered
his binoculars.
“I
think I got him.” The man called Jim, turned in the passenger seat, and thumbed
back through a series of digital pictures he had taken with an expensive
20X-optical-zoom digital camera. “Blurry, blurry, blurry, okay. Gotcha, you
son-of-a-bitch.” Jim held the camera over for his partner to see that he had
gotten at least one clear, well-focused, high-resolution shot of the guy’s
face. “One exciting moment in an otherwise totally boring shift. I wonder who
the guy is, or if we’ll ever find out.”
“We
also serve who only sit and wait,” the man in the driver’s seat said.
TUESDAY, MAY 4, 2010
WASHINGTON,
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
HOMELAND SECURITY, NEBRASKA AVENUE COMPLEX
Randall Burbridge stood at what he thought of as
parade rest in front of the desk of the chief of staff of the Transportation
Security Administration (TSA). Jimmy DeWitt was a pudgy-faced political
appointee in his early forties and the number-two man in the Homeland
Department’s chain of command. Burbridge was the TSA’s Assistant Administrator
in Charge of Law-Enforcement and the Federal Air marshal Program. A powerful
man in his own right, he didn’t appreciate being on the defensive. However,
congressional investigations into his $200M per year budget had caused that to
happen several times in the past months. A former marine and Vietnam veteran
with a purple heart, he had been a beat cop and retired after a long career as
a member of the Treasury Department’s Secret Service. Even though it had been
decades since he carried a gun, he still thought of himself first, as a law
enforcement officer. I came back to help my country after 9/11. I don’t need
this shit. He tuned out most of the senseless tirade coming from his
superior.
“Are
you listening to me Burbridge?” DeWitt shouted.
Without
otherwise responding, he raised his eyebrows to indicate he was.
“Do
you realize there were eleven men killed in this fracas down in South Carolina?
Do you realize that your man Driver was responsible for killing eight of them?
Why didn’t you warn me about this? This is just the kind of embarrassment some
GOP Congressman would like to shove up my ass!”
“Apparently
Mr. Driver was actively assisting an investigation by DEA and ICE during the
incidents in question, sir,” he said. “He was not acting as an air marshal. If
he had been, I would have briefed you, sir.”
“One
of your guys is in the biggest gun battle in which an air marshal has ever
taken part and you think some GOP Congressman is going to care that he wasn’t
on an airplane at the time? Tell me, who the hell is this Driver guy anyway?”
Dewitt demanded. “And why is he listed on administrative leave?”
“Some
years ago we got a joint request from NSA and DIA to carry him on our rolls,
sir.”
“You
mean there is some kind of NSA spy hiding out in your department.” Dewitt’s
tone communicated how nearly close to ballistic he was.
“Sir,
Driver is a qualified air marshal. We put him through all our schools. From
time to time we even pay him for his services when he flies internationally.”
“This
old coot passed all your physical and weapons training requirements?”
He
let it pass that the chief of staff was talking about a man precisely his age.
“That old coot was number one in his class in both, sir.”
Dewitt
flipped a couple of pages in a personnel file on his desk, nodded and grunted,
“Harumpf. I want this guy standing tall in front of my desk tomorrow morning to
give me a blow by blow of what went down. It’s bad enough that I have to defend
your department in Congress against reports of Marshalls with felonies and the
accusation that the air marshal service costs us a hundred million dollars per
arrest. I’m not going to get blindsided by one of your guys going cowboy, and
shooting up illegal aliens.”
“Two
things sir, please note both the DEA and the Beaufort County Sherriff’s Office
issued letters of commendation for Mr. Driver and …”
“And
what, Burbridge?” DeWitt interrupted.
“And
we can’t find Mr. Driver, sir. Apparently, he is somewhere at sea.”
“At
sea? Why the fuck am I not surprised. Get him in here as soon as he hits
American soil. Got that?”
“Got
it, sir.” Without waiting for more abuse, he did a snappy about face and fled
back to his office on the next lower floor. He called in his deputy. “Find Jake
Driver and get him in here ASAP. The chief went ballistic on me when he got
wind of Driver’s run in with MS-13.” I was afraid burying those after action
reports would blow up in my face. Driver is what we need on the front lines,
old school, like me. I could do my damn job for one-third the budget if I could
turn guys like Driver loose, or, better yet, copy Mossad and El Al’s
procedures. Trouble is, they’re either illegal or not PC.
TUESDAY, MAY 4, 2010
CHOLULA,
MEXICO
Captain Guttierez sped like a madman down the
Mexico-Puebla highway. He had called in sick, and truly, he felt sick. He was
faint and his hands quivered on the wheel of his little Volkswagen. His
destination was Cholula, a suburb of the larger city Puebla some 170 KM to the
southeast of Mexico City toward Veracruz. In Cholula, right on top of the most
important Nahuatl Indian spiritual center, the Spanish conquistadors built the Santuario
Nuestra Señora de los Remedios church. He had visited the site several
times before. Sometimes called the Great Pyramid of Cholula, the huge man-made
hill was both the largest pyramid and largest monument in the world. The
kidnappers had told him to meet them there next to the church on the side
facing of the 17,802 foot volcano, Popocatépetl.
He
wound up through the hills overtaking and passing other cars with abandon. Only
the tightest of hairpin turns kept him from passing. His fear that he would not
arrive in time was unjustified. He arrived at the church with fifteen minutes
to spare and rushed on foot to its east side. With fearful eyes, he scanned the
visitors oblivious to the grand view of the volcano.
“Do
not turn around, Captain.” He froze. The voice was not the raspy voice of the
man who spoke to him on the phone but a different, oddly accented one.
“What
do you want? Where is my wife? Where is my child?” he said.
“Your
wife and child are alive and well. They are not here, but if you want to see
them alive again you will do exactly as I say.” He started to turn around and
the voice brought him to a quick halt. “Do not do that, Captain! If you turn
around, they will die.”
“What
is it you want? I do not have much money.”
The
voice chuckled. “We do not want your money, Captain. We want one small thing
from the University. On Saturday at 8AM, when no one else is there, you will
meet us on the steps, go to your office, and get what we want. Then you may
have your wife and child.”
“How
do I know they are alive?”
“Take
this.”
A
hand snaked around his side and thrust a picture at him. He took it. It was a
picture of his wife holding that day’s El Universal so the front page
was visible. She is alive.
“Go
back to work, Captain. Act as if nothing has happened. Meet us Saturday morning
at eight o’clock on the steps and your wife and child will live.”
“But
Saturday is four days from now …” Something had changed. A shadow on the ground
was gone. Reflections of noise were different. Somehow, he knew there was no
longer anyone there to hear him. Nevertheless, he waited minutes before turning
around to see. How will I get through the next four days? What is it
they want?
TUESDAY, MAY 4, 2010
BALTIMORE
HARBOR, MARYLAND
Samantha Barker knocked on the door of the Security
Director for the Port of Baltimore. She had never been into the Port of
Baltimore before and was impressed that her DEA identification had been
insufficient to gain her access. She had an appointment with the Security
Director. Despite this, she had to get a special visitor’s smart-chipped
identification card issued. A guard checked her identification again before she
could enter the Dumar Building on the south side of the Dundalk Marine
Terminal. The sprawling Dundalk Terminal was only one of six that comprised the
portions of the port supervised by the Maryland Port Authority. “Come,” shouted
a gruff voice from inside the office.
She
opened the door to one of the messiest offices she had ever seen. Stacks of
paper of varying heights seemed to occupy every available horizontal surface.
She said, “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Director.” This guy
needs an executive assistant.
“Call
me Slim.” The gruff voiced man came around his desk to shake her hand. “My parents
called me Slim and it stuck.” The Director gestured for her to take a seat.
The
man was one of the skinniest men she had ever met. Self-fulfilling prophesy.
His necktie was down and collar undone revealing a pencil thin neck several
inches too small for his shirt. “Slim it is then,” she said, taking his hand.
She sat in the leather armchair in front of the desk and crossed her legs. She
had researched his biography. He had retired after twenty-five years of service
from a senior position with the U. S. Customs Service, and had a reputation as
a good organizer. You wouldn’t know it by this office though.
Oh-oh,
he’s looking at my legs.
She was a twenty-year veteran at DEA and worked hard to be seen as Agent
Barker, not a pretty face and body. She ran and worked with weights three times
a week and practiced with her service weapon as often as she could. The coach
of the DEA’s competitive marksmanship team had invited her to compete. She wore
her hair short, no makeup and usually wore dark pantsuits to project an image
that was all business. This was a hot day so she opted for a skirt. Maybe it
won’t be a problem.
The
Director continued to look her up and down lasciviously, then turned and pushed
aside a stack of papers so he could rest one hip on the front of his desk.
“What can I do for you today, little lady?”
Maybe
it is going to be a problem. Twenty
years before, she would have ignored his glances and patronizing tone. However,
she had long since lost her patience with such crap at the DEA and her response
was automatic. With honey in her voice, she said, “I prefer Agent Barker, if
you don’t mind, Slim.” I’m not likely to get the help I need with this as a
start.
“Don’t
get your pantyhose in a bunch, Agent Barker,” the Director said. “And don’t
read too much into this good ol’ boy thing I do. I just want to know what I can
do for you today.”
“No
offense taken, Slim. I’d like you to look at this.” She pulled a specially
prepared report out of her briefcase and passed it to him. The report included
a physical and psychological profile of the unsubs, a listing of fatal drug
overdoses, reported sightings of MS-13 members and tagging, a catalogue of
deaths and injuries caused by the current drug war in Baltimore and estimates
of the increase in cocaine flowing into Baltimore in the past months.
The
Director glanced at the first two pages. “I heard something about this from my
guys in the Maryland Transportation Authority Police,” he said, referring to
the elite police force that protects Maryland’s bridges, tunnels, airports,
operates the harbor patrol and performs the patrol and law-enforcement
functions at the port. What can I do about it?”
“A
new supply of cocaine is hitting the Baltimore area. The intelligence we have
indicates it is coming in by sea. I have a stack of these reports and I would
appreciate it if you would disseminate them among your security details, both
static and patrolling. I’m trying to heighten everyone’s awareness of the unsub
profile. I have my team’s contact info on the back page of each. You could ask
them to report anything suspicious directly to us.”
The
Director scowled and said, “Keeping contraband from coming in to the U. S. is
the only thing we do. We have hundreds of security people here 24/7 and it’s
not to protect what’s here from being stolen. We process eight million tons of
cargo here each year. 16,700 people work here, that’s a $3.7 billion-dollar
payroll. We vet every one before they get one of those smart credentials you
are wearing. What we put them through is a pain in the ass for personnel. It
includes a background investigation almost like getting a federal secret
security clearance. We can unload or load your average containership in a
matter of three hours and do six ships at a time. We x-ray as many as 64,000 containers
a month and check them for radiation and drugs too. What more can we do?”
“If
you will hand out the reports …”
The
Director interrupted. “We just got an outstanding security assessment by Coast
Guard Sector Baltimore. Procedures and checklists determine everything we do
here.”
“You
must have regular security meetings with the Securitas people and the
Transportation Authority Police. Please, hand out these reports in those
meetings. It may raise awareness of this specific threat enough to get us some
leads.”
“Okay,
Agent Barker, I’ll do it. But consider this, the Chesapeake isn’t like the most
of the rest of the coast of America. It’s more like the bayous of Louisiana
when it comes to places to come ashore. Contraband could be delivered to any
one of hundreds of landings along the Chesapeake much more easily than it can
get through this port.”
“That’s
a valid point, and we at DEA are afraid you might be right. However, we
appreciate the cooperation distributing the reports. We can’t leave any stone
unturned. On a different subject, Securitas is a Swedish company. How do you
feel about having them man all your static security stations?”
“They’re
a worldwide company with more than 280,000 employees. 98% of people working
here on the ground are U. S. citizens and 100% have been vetted. I’m completely
happy with our contracts with Securitas.”
“That’s
good to know. I won’t take up any more of your time.” She rose and shook his
hand again. As she left, out of the corner of her eye, she caught him ogling
her butt, and saw him drop her stack of reports on top of an already tall stack
of papers on the corner of his desk. That didn’t go the way I’d hoped. Why
do I have no faith he will distribute those reports?
FRIDAY, MAY 7, 2010
TOBACCO
BAY, BERMUDA
Jake and his friend Alex Greene sat at a
picnic table in the shade of the snack shop on the shore of Tobacco Bay at the
very northeastern tip of Bermuda. They sipped concoctions of rum in a slush of
fruit juices. Alex’s wife Sarah and Sandy snorkeled around the little island in
the middle of the bay in the distance. Alex and Sarah had flown in the night
before. Jake and Sandy had moved Nele to the quayside at Captain Smokes
Marina on McCallan’s Wharf to make getting on and off the boat more convenient
during the Greenes’ visit. That morning they had taken Nele’s dinghy, Lil’
Nel, on the three-mile trip out St. Georges’ inlet and around the north end
of the island to enjoy the crystal-clear water of Tobacco Bay.
Alex
and Sarah were his oldest and best friends. He had anchored off Pigeon Point
Landing, up the road from their waterfront home in Beaufort, South Carolina at
least once each year for decades. The Greenes had effectively made him one of
their family. During those years, their home became the only shoreside home he
knew. He sometimes spent weeks, even months living in their guest suite writing
his romance novels. He and Alex were in constant contact through the Tertulia,
an e-mail group that Alex moderated.
Months
before, the death of a mutual friend had dragged them all into a drug war.
After it had ended, it was the Greenes’ home in which he and Sandy had
reconciled, opening this new chapter of his life.
St.
Georges was a stop in the transatlantic voyage he had taken aboard Alex’s
beloved Cheoy Lee Clipper Aeolian in 2000. When Aeolian and its
crew passed through, Sarah hadn’t come to Bermuda. This visit was Alex’s chance
to show her all she had missed.
“So
how is it going with Sandy?” Alex said, taking a long pull on his drink.
“I
pinch myself at least once a day to make sure I’m not dreaming. I’ve never been
so happy. I’ve never felt the way I do about her, and as time passes it just
gets better and better.”
“So
all the phobias and fears of commitment are subsiding?”
“It’s
a strange feeling, foreign to me, but I’d say Sandy helps me feel almost whole
for the first time in my adult life. I’m even talking to myself about whether
or when we should make it permanent.”
“You
mean?”
“Don’t
say anything. But yep, I mean marriage.”
“Oooo
brrr,” Sandy exclaimed emerging from the water with her mask and snorkel
propped on her forehead and flippers in hand. “The water must be six or seven
degrees cooler than in the Bahamas.”
“I
can see that,” he said playfully, bouncing his eyebrows up and down like
Groucho Marx.
Sandy
followed his eyes to the front of her suit. “Oh you,” she said, hitting him
with the flippers. She dropped the flippers, sat at the table, took his drink
from his hand and took a gulp. “That’s good.”
“Alex,
come see all the beautiful fish,” Sarah shouted from the water.
“Duty
calls,” Alex said. He winked at Jake, grabbed his mask, snorkel and flippers
and headed for the water.
“What
was that wink about?” Sandy said.
“Just
some guy talk.”
SATURDAY, MAY 8, 2010
UNIVERSIDAD AUTONOMA DE LA CIUDAD DE MEXICO
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO
Captain Guttierez waited on the steps of the university
only a minute before a man approached. Dressed in a crisply pressed blue
business suit and fine leather shoes, and carrying an accountant’s wide leather
briefcase, the man looked prosperous. “Good morning, Captain,” the man greeted
him as if he knew him. The words carried a strange accent, like the voice
behind him at the Santuario Nuestra Señora de los Remedios
church. However, the voice was not the one he had heard there. The man had a
thin face, and was handsome in a swarthy way. It flitted though his mind that
this man let him see his face.
“Where
are my wife and child?” he said.
“They
are safe. When we are through here I will take you to them,” the swarthy man
said, smiling reassuringly.
“There
are metal detectors and guards,” he said.
“I
carry no metal and I am your guest. What can go wrong?” the man said.
“I
need your name for the guest log.”
“Let’s
call me Juan Guttierez,” the man said. “I am your cousin, and you are simply
showing me around. Shall we go?”
He
was frightened, frightened that something would go wrong and he would never see
his wife and child again, frightened that he was helping this man steal
something from the university. He walked up the steps to the revolving doorway
and through the metal detector inside the anteroom. The man calmly followed in
his wake.
“Good
morning, Captain,” one of the security guards said.
“Good
morning, Jorge.” He watched the guard give a cursory inspection to the swarthy
man’s briefcase. He wondered if the guard could sense his fear and consciously
tried to seem calm. The man retrieved his briefcase from the guard and joined
him walking down the broad corridor toward the section of the university the
military occupied.
The
Army funded ongoing research projects at the university. Supervising those
projects and managing the associated budgets was one of the many things he did
as a military liaison. It was easy, pleasant work, next to what he had done as
a platoon leader in Matamoros. The swarthy man seemed relaxed, as though he had
walked these corridors before, or knew precisely what to expect.
They
arrived at the military checkpoint separating the army’s offices and
army-funded research from the rest of the university. Military police manned this
checkpoint, not civilian security guards. Another metal detector blocked the
corridor. He entered his companion’s name as Juan Guttierez on the visitor’s
log. He had forgotten completely that the guard would check the man’s
identification using a driver’s license or military identification. He was
shocked to see that the man actually had a driver’s license in the name of Juan
Guttierez. “Just showing my cousin around,” he remarked to the corporals on
guard.
“Have
a good day, Captain,” the guard said after pawing through the man’s briefcase.
Captain Guttierez proceeded down the corridor toward his office. Now I will
discover what these people want. As he walked, he glanced left and right
and saw that the other offices were empty. Few people came to work on weekends,
and even fewer this early on a Saturday. Thank God, I’m unlikely to run into
anyone one. He turned in to his office with the man right behind him.
He
turned to face the man. “Now tell me what it is that you want and let’s get
this over,” he said.
The
man smiled and teeth gleamed white against the man’s dark face. Maybe the smile
was supposed to put him at ease, but it seemed an insincere, wicked smile and
put him on edge. “Patience, Captain. First I want you to take me to see the
basement,” the man said.
“The
basement? Nothing down there is accessible.”
“Nevertheless,
take me to see it.”
He
walked from his office to the stairwell at the end of the corridor and down two
flights of stairs. The dimly lit basement corridor opened before him. Halfway
down the hall a brighter light illuminated the only door on the corridor. He
had only been down here once before when he had assisted in the inventory of
the … No. It cannot be. He cannot want this. I cannot open the door alone
anyway.
Beginning
in the late 1960s, the army initiated a project with the university, the
Mexican National Nuclear Investigation Institute, and the former Mexican space
agency to create the components required to make and deliver nuclear weapons.
Researchers from the university, ININ and the Mexican Army were successful in
highly-enriching uranium to weapons-grade by 1974.
The
Army terminated the project before actually building nuclear weapons and a
delivery system, following the Treaty of Tlatelolco in which Mexico pledged
never to use nuclear weapons. However, the few kilograms of weapons-grade
uranium they had produced was still stored here. A stockpile of less highly
enriched nuclear fuel, used to power the Mexican National Nuclear Institute’s
small research reactor, was also located here in the basement of the
university. Visually there was no difference between the two stockpiles. The
difference was only a matter of purity.
Just
the month before, the Army reached an agreement with the United States that
would transfer the weapons-grade stockpiles to the United States. After
Congress approved the agreement, the transfer to the U.S. would begin. He had
helped inventory the stockpiles of uranium almost a year before, and though he
was one of only six army officers and a handful of scientists authorized
access, he had not been into the facility since. Its existence was not
something he often thought about.
“I
can’t access anything here alone,” he said.
“Show
me that doorway,” the man said gesturing down the hall.
The
doorway had a state-of-the-art retinal scanner and keypad, and it required dual
verification before it would unlock. Two people whose retinal imprints were
loaded into the device must key in a six-digit number and have their retinas
scanned and recognized before it would open. He explained this to the man.
“Show
me how you would do your part, Captain,” the man demanded.
He
entered his six-digit code and the device prompted him to position his eye
before the scanner. A moment later the device displayed: “Captain Carlos Gutierrez
– recognized.”
Then
the man shocked him by entering another six-digit code. The device then
prompted his superior, Colonel Gonzales, to position his eye before the
scanner. The man removed a ziplock bag from his breast pocket, took out a human
eyeball and positioned it before the scanner. The scanner passed over the
eyeball and the device displayed, “Colonel Gonzales – recognized.” There was a
loud clank of metal as the bolt withdrew unlocking the door. The man opened the
door and pushed him inside.
“What
have you done with Colonel Gonzales?” he demanded. Why am I asking this? I
know he must be dead. They will kill me, and Maria, and Little Carlos too. But
I am alive. While there is life, there is hope.
“Let
us simply say that he was not as reasonable as you, Captain,” the man said.
Suits
and masks offering protection from radiation hung on pegs set into the wall of
the anteroom to the storage room and reactor. The man directed him to don one
of these and put on one as well. They passed through an airlock into the
adjoining room. Then the man led him to the storage room. The man seemed to
know exactly what he wanted and where it would be.
The
storage room was bare and devoid of any decoration. Captain Guttierez knew that
uranium in its natural state was not very radioactive and anyone could handle
it safely. Inert U-238 comprised more than 99.3% of naturally occurring uranium
and could actually absorb radiation. However, what was stored in this room was
enriched uranium. In some, the percent of the fissionable U-235 to U-238 was 4%
or more, for use as nuclear fuel. In others, the U-235 content was above 20%,
for use in nuclear weapons. On shelves dispersed around the perimeter of the
room lay enriched uranium cylinders. A tube of U-238 encased each cylinder.
U-238 also lined the shelves and formed separators between storage spaces.
Rubberized tongs designed to grip the cylinders from a foot away hung on hooks
in one corner. Beneath lay a stack of small U-238 lined boxes with individual
compartments sized to hold the cylinders. When scientists wanted to move
enriched uranium from place to place, they used these boxes.
The
man grabbed one of the smaller lined boxes and placed it into his briefcase.
Then he took one of the tongs and carefully slid ten two-kilo cylinders from
the inventory of the weapons grade uranium into the individual compartments in
the box and shut it. He moved ten cylinders from the supply of reactor fuel
into the spaces the weapons grade fuel used to occupy.
“You
won’t be able to get that back through the metal detectors,” he said to the
man.
The
man just smiled in response. “Come, it is time for you to see your wife and
child,” the man said.
Hope
made his heart leap in his chest. After all these days, will they actually
let Maria and Carlos go? He did not want to feel this way. He wanted to
wish that the man would fail, but he could not. He wanted to see Maria and
Carlos again, alive and safe.
He
led the way back up two flights and down the corridor to his office. There the
man took twenty meters of strong nylon twine out of a pocket in his briefcase
and attached it to the briefcase handle. He went to the window, opened it, and
lowered the briefcase to the ground in the alleyway below, tossing the twine
out the window once the briefcase was down.
“In
a little while you will be reunited with your wife,” the man said. “Be calm. It
is time to leave.”
They
reversed their entrance and none of the military or civilian guards noticed
that the man did not have the briefcase he had brought. He followed the man
around the corner to an older Nissan Tsuru that might have been a taxicab at
some point in its life. “You drive,” the man said.
He
climbed behind the wheel. “Where are we going?”
“Go
back to the Mexico-Puebla Highway. I will tell you when to turn off.”
“Aren’t
you going to retrieve the briefcase?”
“It
is taken care of.”
He
drove as he had four days before, up into the hills. After 120 kilometers, the
man told him to turn off at a sign that read Krupp Metalurgica Servicos. He
followed a gravel road out beyond the Krupp factory until it became a dirt road
in the rich farmland beneath the volcano. Three kilometers further into farming
country the man told him to stop. A cloud of dust behind the Tsuru had hidden
the black SUV that followed them from the highway. It pulled to a stop nearby.
The
swarthy man jumped out of the Tsuru and greeted the driver of the SUV.
He
climbed out of the Tsuru as well.
“It
is done?” the driver of the SUV said. He recognized the driver’s voice as the
one he heard at the Santuario Nuestra Señora de los Remedios
church.
“It
is done,” the swarthy man replied.
Out
of the back of the SUV emerged another man, dragging Maria with him. Maria had
little Carlos clinging to her breast. He raced to be by her side, but stopped
short when the man dragging Maria pointed a pistol at his face and said, “Stop
right there.” He recognized the raspy smoke-damaged voice he had first heard on
the phone. The man looked like a brigand next to his well-dressed companions.
The man wore blue jeans and a T-shirt and had tattoos all over his arms, neck
and face.
“All
that is left is to plant this scum with the colonel.” The swarthy man said.
He
heard the swarthy man’s words and the tone of scorn and contempt he used. How
could I have been so stupid? They are going to kill us anyway. In that
moment, he lost all hope, and became enraged. He charged the swarthy man with
his hands outstretched. He attacked the swarthy man first with his fingers
clawing at the man’s face. He raked a nail from the man’s temple to his jaw,
and struck him with a fist in the eye, but he lost the element of surprise in a
moment.
The
swarthy man pulled a razor-sharp ceramic knife from a sleeve and thrust it into
his belly, yanking upward, inflicting a horrible wound. His entrails dangled
and his blood poured from the wound. He fell to the ground trying to stuff his
entrails back inside his body. His head felt light. Sparkles of light and dark
danced in his vision. “Maria, Maria, I am so sorry,” he said as he died.
The
swarthy man backhanded the tatooed man across the face. “You had your pistol on
the pig. Why didn’t you shoot?” he screamed. Blood welled in the wound on his
cheek, and he could feel his eyebrow swelling.
The
tattooed man started to raise a pistol. He froze the tattooed man with an icy
stare. The pistol wavered, and lowered. “He surprised me,” the tattooed man
said.
The
woman lay prostrate over the body of her dead husband. Still clutching her baby
to her breast, the woman wailed disconsolately. “Take care of this vermin now,”
he commanded, gesturing toward the woman.
“Must
the woman and child die?” the tattooed man said.
Stung
to rage, he grabbed the woman by the hair and jerked her head up and back. He
slashed across her neck with his ceramic knife severing her carotid artery.
Blood spurted ten feet through the air to land on the tattooed man’s boots. His
slash so nearly decapitated her that in a flash he decided to finish the job.
Four more saws with his razor-sharp ceramic knife completed the detachment. He
held up the woman’s severed head by the hair for the shocked tattooed man to
see. Then he dropped it to the ground and picked the baby out of the headless
woman’s arms. He smiled benignly into the squalling face, dangled the baby by
one leg, and slashed its throat as well. He dropped the baby’s nearly
decapitated body onto its mother’s. “If you want your money, you’ll bury this
scum with the colonel now,” he snarled at the tattooed man.
The
tattooed man made the sign of the cross. “Right away.” The tattooed man dragged
the captain’s body off to the side of the road.
He
turned to the driver of the SUV and smiled. “These infidels are sometimes
useful, but generally worthless. It won’t hurt to have them fear us.” He
withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood on his cheek.
MONDAY, MAY 17, 2010
32° 5´ N - 64° 58´ E
WEST
OF BERMUDA
Jake and Sandy ate a quiet meal below, out of
the spitting rain. Nele was hove to, drifting a bit to the east. Only
her inner jib was up and Jake had backed that to keep Nele from going
too far, too fast. He wanted to park Nele right where she was. It was
going to get bouncy enough on the periphery of the Gulf Stream. He was not
going to proceed until the wind started blowing from the southeast again. A day
of bobbing around reading books would be a lot better than sailing into the
thick of it.
The
Greene’s had spent a wonderful week with them in Bermuda, snorkeling,
sightseeing and dining. Sandy had used her country-club connections to get them
all into the Mid Oceans Country Club. They had enjoyed a wonderful round of
golf and dined in an elegant setting overlooking the eighteenth fairway and the
ocean. At dinner, they sat right next to Michael Douglas and Catherine
Zeta-Jones and their well-behaved son and daughter. A bit star-struck they had
tried not to stare impolitely.
After
hugs and kisses, and assurances that they would see each other again at
Samantha and Bobby’s wedding in June, the Greenes flew back to the U.S. on the
fourteenth. Immediately a weather window opened that promised three days of
relative calm on a broad reach to the west, with only a possibility of a front
coming off the coast after that. Jake jumped at the chance to get to the
Chesapeake.
The
southeast wind, however, had been nearly nonexistent resulting in comfortable
but slow sailing, and the possible front coming off the coast had materialized
earlier than expected. The wind had clocked to the west, then the north, and
was coming from the northeast. He had consulted his weatherman Herb Hilgenberg
by SSB radio and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He had
been in the Gulf Stream when the wind blew from the north. There was nothing
fun about it. We’ll just rest at sea and catch up on our reading.
WEDNESNDAY, MAY 19, 2010
IN
THE WATERS OF THE CHESAPEAKE BAY
Captain Silvio Cordoba reduced the speed of his
containership, El Aguilar de Mexico to a crawl. He hated what the next
few minutes might bring. It was the most dangerous few minutes of the whole
operation. The likelihood of discovery in Vera Cruz was minuscule next to what
could happen here.
The
moon was out and nearly full. The Bay was calm and the weather was perfect, but
this was not good. It had been squally and raining on the eighth when he had
made the last transfer. Despite the slightly increased possibility of dropping
a cargo, he much preferred days like that. It was too easy on a night like
tonight for the U.S. Coast Guard, or a random recreational boater, to see the
big black cigarette come alongside to receive cargo. He also knew the U.S.
Coast Guard could track his ship using its automatic identifier signal (AIS),
now required for all ship’s VHF communications. Turning off the signal would
draw even more attention. The longer we maintain this low speed, the more likely
we are to rouse suspicion.
From
his position on the bridge, he could see his first mate already had the small,
midship boom loaded with a palette in a cargo net. The mate waited for the
arrival of the cigarette boat. Painted a flat black and displaying no lights,
the cigarette boat often came right alongside before anyone saw it. On this
moonlit night, he had already caught its dark form rushing toward them in the
distance, a luminescent wake trailing behind it.
Jake
peered into the darkness. That’s strange. Why are we catching that container
ship? It passed us less than an hour ago doing more than twice our speed.
The ship’s navigation lights had dwindled in the distance, now the huge hull
loomed large in front of him again as Nele overtook it. “Take the wheel
for a minute. I want to check the AIS for that ship and make sure they’re aware
of us. We don’t want to pass them and get run over when they crank back up,” he
said to Sandy. Sandy snorted in a way that suggested his words were the
understatement of the century, and scooted around the cockpit to take the wheel
while he went below. They had seen only a few ships at great distances at sea
and sailed in waters thousands of feet deep. Suddenly the water was less than
one hundred feet deep, there was land all around them, and huge ships passed
them in the darkness. It was scary.
The
weather front that had kept them from crossing the Gulf Steam had passed
quickly. The wind clocked around as the prevailing southeasterlies of the
Bermuda High reasserted themselves. On a broad reach, they made good time
crossing of the Stream. Before dusk, Jake and Sandy had gotten to the
Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, a twenty-six mile system of bridges, man-made
islands and six-mile tunnel that spanned the gap from Norfolk, Virginia to the
Delmarva Peninsula on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake. As night fell, they
sailed past the lights of Norfolk and Hampton Roads. Off to the west they could
see the dark expanse of the mouth of the York River opening wide. The moon was
nearly full and the breeze light and warm. It was a luscious night, but the
treacherousness of nighttime sailing in shipping lanes tempered the beauty, and
the joyful feeling that usually accompanies a landfall. Jake had watched the
huge container ship carefully as it passed close by.
Nele’s VHF radio could pick up the
automatic identifier signals broadcast by other vessels. The radio connected to
his laptop computer so the digital information embedded in the signals
displayed on Nele’s navigational system. A moving icon on the electronic
chart showed the container ship’s name, length, and tonnage. The ship is El
Aguilar de Mexico. They ought to be able to see us too, but they might
not be paying attention.
“Aguilar
de Mexico, Aguilar de Mexico, this is the sailing vessel Nele Von
Kiel, over.” Jake attempted to contact the ship by VHF radio.
“This
is Aguilar de Mexico, over,” a heavily accented Latino voice crackled
back. The first two words sounded like “dees ees,” and “over” sounded like
“oh-bear.” Just as English was the language of worldwide air traffic control,
it was also the language of radio communications at sea. No matter what
nationality, bridge officers must be proficient in English. But apparently
only somewhat proficient based on this and other voices I’ve heard.
“Nele
Von Kiel, I am a half mile south of you on your port quarter. If I
maintain course and speed, I will pass close to you soon. I want to make sure
you know I am here, over.”
“Aguilar
de Mexico, I see you. We put more speed on in minutes. Stay to port. There
danger is not, over.”
“Nele
Von Kiel, roger. I will stay well to your port. Nele Von Kiel,
out.” He hung up the radio handset and climbed up the companionway to the
cockpit.
“They
can see us. Let’s steer a little more to port to give them lots of room. It’s
damn strange for a big ship to drop its speed to nothing out here in the middle
of the bay,” he said. Sandy steered Nele a few degrees to port on a
course that would pass the container ship a quarter mile to its west.
As
they approached, the containership increased its speed again, rapidly drawing
away from them to the Northeast. In the darkness beyond the ship, a flash of
light reflected off something low in the water and moving fast. Jake saw a line
of luminescence indicating the wake of an invisible boat rapidly leaving the
starboard side of the ship. Oh, oh. That boat isn’t showing any
lights, and it’s moving fast. This smells like a drug transfer at sea.
“Do
you see that?” he asked Sandy.
“It
looks like something fast moving away from us, but I can’t see what it is.”
“That
is a fast boat with no lights on.”
“Are
you thinking what I am thinking?” Sandy said.
“Yep,
and I’m going to call Samantha right away.”
“Jake,
it’s the middle of the night.”
“No
time like the present. Samantha always said if everyone would report the drug
activity they see, we could win the war on drugs, but too many people turn a
blind eye, as though law enforcement is only for cops and none of their
business.”
He
took out his cell phone, found Samantha in his directory, and called. The voice
that answered sounded professional, but he detected the grogginess of sleep.
“Sorry to wake you, Samantha. Yes, we’re back in U.S. waters. Sandy and I are
in the Chesapeake, thirty miles south of Annapolis. I’m sorry to wake you up,
but I wanted to report what might have been a drug transfer from a container
ship to a fast boat with no lights. No. It’s unusual for a container ship to
slow to a crawl out here in the middle of the Bay. When we saw a fast boat with
no lights leaving the ship we figured something fishy was going on and we ought
to report it to our favorite DEA agent right away. Aguilar de Mexico. From
their AIS signal. Heading to the northeast. Now. Yeah. Is ‘cuddly bear’ there
with you? Give him a hug and kiss from Sandy. We’re looking forward to seeing
you both soon.”
“What
was that ‘cuddly bear’ stuff?” Sandy said when he had finished the call.
“Bobby
told me that Samantha said she thought he was ‘cute, like a cuddly bear’ when
she first told him she liked him. I think I’m going to razz him with that one
for the rest of his life.”
“I
think it’s sweet.”
“I
think so too, but I’m still going to razz him about it.”
To be continued …
He hadn’t imagined going home this way. The cargo plane had two rows of bunks to accommodate the wounded, stacked side by side down its center and bolted to the floor. Racks of double bunks also lined the port and starboard bulkheads. Every bunk had a wounded soldier, or sailor or airman strapped into it on takeoff. 
