Targets of Opportunity (46 page)

The freighter
Morning Star,
rigged with the two drone submarines, was running on a northwesterly course through the Yucatan Channel into the Gulf of Mexico on a heading that paralleled the angry tack of the hurricane. The ship moved slowly, staying clear of the few other vessels to be found in these choppy waters, but its entrance was noted almost as soon as it turned around the western tip of Cuba and approached GOMEX.

“This is the United States Coast Guard,” a disembodied voice proclaimed over the USCG frequency. “Identify yourself.”

The skeleton crew of the
Morning Star
was under strict orders to maintain radio silence. Their task was to get as close as they could to the Texas shore, launch the two AUVs without being detected, then turn for home. They did not expect to be intercepted by the Americans this quickly, even with the weather reducing the usual traffic in the commercial lanes of the Gulf.

The two men in the pilothouse shared a concerned look when the voice from the USCG crackled across their radio speakers a second time.

“This is the United States Coast Guard. We order you to immediately provide us proper identification.”

“
Mierda
,” one of the men said.

The other worked a pair of high-powered binoculars, trying to see something through the soupy skies.
“¡Imposible!”
he exclaimed, barely able to see the bow of their own ship.

They exchanged another look, and the decision was made. The second mate put down the binoculars and headed out into the pouring rain. He hurried down the metal stairs to the deck below, where he found his men waiting for their orders. He told them to prepare the hydraulic pumps.

The mate returned to the wheelhouse as the pilot brought the
Morning Star
around to the port side, slowing almost to a stop as they turned, giving them time to raise the hatch. The position of the freighter made the maneuver invisible to the north and, in this weather, to anyone who was not within a hundred yards of the ship.

The crew belowdecks released the chains that secured the two subs, and they slid along their descending rails, disappearing below the surface of the sea as the hatch was lowered back into place.

When the compartment was shut and they finished their sweeping about-face, they increased speed and headed south for Venezuela.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

ABOARD THE U.S.S.
BURGWYN
IN THE GULF OF MEXICO

L
IEUTENANT
L
OUIS
S
PANO
on the U.S.S.
Burgwyn
was the first to spot the two AUVs on his radar screen as they made their way through the water on their route north. Standing in the communications room using SOSUS, the United States Navy sound surveillance system, he noticed two new blips on the LCD monitor. He immediately radioed the captain.

“Sir, we have subsurface movement on a north-northwest heading, running at twenty-two knots. It appears to be two different vessels.”

The
Burgwyn
was an
Arleigh Burke
–class guided missile destroyer, over 500 feet long with a beam of some 65 feet, carrying more than 300 servicemen. It was equipped with state-of-the-art sensors and processing systems, including the standard AIS, AN/SPY-1D radar, AN/SPS-67(V)2 surface search radar, and AN/SQS-53C sonar array, together with a modern arsenal of tactical and defense armaments.

The communications center on the
Burgwyn
had already heard the report from the Coast Guard, that an unidentified freighter had entered the Gulf and that when calls for identification went unanswered the ship had turned and made its way south.

The
Burgwyn,
using sonar buoys that are passive hydrophones while also “dipping” their sonar, could determine whether the submersibles were manned or drones, their size, engine capability, and, of course, speed.

While the crew worked on gathering that data in response to Spano’s observation, the skipper contacted the emergency command center that had been established at the naval air base in Corpus Christi. The
Burgwyn
was fitted with an SH-60 Seahawk helicopter, but in this weather it would be a high-risk sortie to attempt to track the renegade freighter as it headed south. There were enough USCG fast boats in the Gulf to chase it down. The important issue for now was tracking the two subsurface vessels.

————

Byrnes was standing on Connecticut Avenue, speaking with Sandor on his encrypted cell phone about the possibility of a secondary target, when the agent in the lobby of the Mayflower came running out to tell the DD about the shootings.

“The Jabers are both dead,” he reported.

“What about Agent Karipides?”

“He’s fine, he was able to take the assassin alive. Badly shot up, but alive.”

Byrnes responded with a grave look, then remembered that Sandor was still on the line. “You heard all that?”

“I did,” Sandor told him. “I’m surprised the shooter wasn’t wired for a religious send-off.” Sandor knew that was a favorite Al Qaeda ploy. After you thought you had disarmed the man you discover he’s wired with explosives to take you and everyone around him on that final journey to Jannah. “Make sure he isn’t rigged up with anything.”

Byrnes relayed Sandor’s concern to his agent, who told him that was a negative. “First thing Karipides checked.”

“All right,” Byrnes said dully, “let’s get the shooter to the infirmary.”

“And set him up for interrogation,” Sandor hollered into the phone. “Let’s find out what we can from the sonuvabitch.”

Before Byrnes could respond, Banahan came to the door of the side office.

“I’ve got to go,” Sandor told the DD. “We’ve got action in the Gulf. I’ll report back.”

————

Sandor and Banahan hurried into Janssen’s office, where they found themselves in the midst of another huge conference call, this time with participants from the United States military. The captain of the U.S.S.
Burgwyn
reported subsurface movement that appeared on the sonar array as two small vessels. They had no response to attempted radio contact and believed the subs to be unmanned.

The Coast Guard weighed in, describing the actions of the renegade freighter that ignored their demands for identification, instead circling south and heading back through the Yucatan Channel.

Everyone wanted instructions on how to proceed.

The commanding officer from the U.S. Navy air base at Corpus Christi was also on the call. Michael Krause was an Annapolis graduate with two tours of duty in the Middle East, a chest full of ribbons, and a charge-ahead attitude that earned him the nickname Moose among friends and enemies alike. “This is Captain Krause,” he announced over the speaker. “The hell with that freighter for now. We’ll catch up with them later. I’m ordering an immediate intercept of both submersibles. We can’t go airborne in this weather. You’ll have to take them out from the
Burgwyn
.”

“This is Jordan Sandor. I’m coordinating the antiterrorist task force out of Washington, captain, and I think we should take a moment to consider our approach.”

“There’s a hurricane brewing, and if you’re in Washington—” Krause began, but Sandor cut him off.

“I’m right here in Baytown, sir, and I fully understand the weather issues. In case you have not been fully briefed, my problem is not the means of interception, it’s the potential payload of these two underwater vessels.”

“Let’s get the chain of command straight, son. This is Captain Krause, officer in charge of the Corpus Christi base. Who the hell passed you the baton?”

Sandor gave the name of the President’s National Security Advisor, Peter Forelli, and a scrambled number. “Have your aide decode that and check it out for yourself, captain, but we’re on a short fuse.”

There was only the slightest hesitation, followed by, “All right, Sandor, what have we got here?”

Sandor was concerned that the line was not secure, but time was short and he had no choice. “We have reason to believe these AUVs may be hot. Probably low yield, but hot all the same.”

“I hear you,” Krause said. “Now please tell me this is some sort of doomsday fantasy they’re dreaming up in D.C.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

No one spoke until Krause said, “All the more reason to get hold of these submersibles on the double.”

“Agreed,” Sandor replied, “but we can’t risk detonating them.”

“Understood. You got an idea?”

“Disabling their navigation system. Simply stopping them in their tracks, then attempting to disarm them.”

“How do you figure they’re wired?”

“They could be rigged for impact explosion, but that’s unlikely. If they hit something before they reach their target they would go off, which would defeat their purpose. My guess is a digital timer or a remote device.”

“And you’re betting on a timer.”

“Yes, sir. A remote would be fairly undependable at long range in this weather. If we’re right, and we can stop them, at least we’d have a chance at defusing them. Better than setting them off ourselves.”

Whoever this Krause was, he impressed Sandor when he took absolutely no time making up his mind. “Damn right,” he said. “Let’s get the SEALs on this pronto.
Burgwyn
, you still on this call?”

The skipper of the
Burgwyn
acknowledged he was there. “We have four SEALs onboard, sir.”

“You get us coordinates and we’ll get a second team there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s get moving then,” Krause ordered. “How much time you figure we have?”

“We assume they’re heading this way,” Sandor told him, “to Bay-town.”

The Captain of the
Burgwyn
said, “On their present course, if they maintain speed, that would give us less than two hours to be on the safe side.”

“Roger that,” Krause replied. “Position yourself so you’re running alongside, just in case we have to blow them out of the water at some point.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the captain responded, then rung off.

Sandor asked, “I want to go with the SEALs, sir.”

“It’s a mess out there, son, and I’ve got a team can be in the air in the next few minutes.”

“I’m willing to take the risk,” Sandor told him. “Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be on a chopper and at your door.”

“Well get your ass in the air, then,” Krause barked. “We’ll have a Seahawk going up in ten minutes with or without you.” Then he signed off.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

BAYTOWN, TEXAS

B
EFORE
S
ANDOR LEFT
, he turned to a map they had tacked to the wall. “After Baytown and Baton Rouge, what are the biggest refineries in the area?”

Janssen stood with him and pointed them out. “Texas City just to the southwest of here. Lake Charles and Belle Chasse in Louisiana. Plants all along the coasts of Texas and Mississippi.”

“We need to warn every one of them.”

“You’re sure a secondary hit is going to be a refinery?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Sandor admitted, “but that’s my guess.” He picked up his jacket and turned to Banahan. “Alert their security forces. Especially around Baton Rouge.”

“Will do,” Banahan said.

“You may be wrong about the second strike,” Janssen said, although he did not sound at all convinced.

Sandor shook his head. “If Baytown is really the play and they’re coming at us by water, then where the hell is that truck?”

“Could be a lousy coincidence is all, may have nothing to do with what we’re up against?”

“Sorry, I don’t believe in radioactive coincidences.”

Janssen frowned. “Neither do I.”

Sandor nodded, as if confirming a thought. “Then you guys stay on this. I’m going to do what I can to help them find these nukes in the Gulf,” he said, then bolted out the door.

————

When Adina received word of the early launch of the two AUVs he did nothing to conceal his fury. “Too soon!” he hollered at the men gathered around him in the main cabin of the
Misty II
. “Too soon! Those miserable cowards will pay for their weakness. The Americans will have too much time now, far too much time.” He slammed his hand on the table. “Contact Luis by text, find out their position.”

Two of his aides scurried off to the communications room as Adina paced angrily around the main salon. “What could they have been thinking?” he wondered aloud. His yacht was nearing Puerto la Cruz, where he would monitor the events from a land-based site. “Let’s hope this weather worsens quickly,” he told the others, who remained to attend his orders. “Let’s at least hope for that.”

————

Outside the administration building at the Baytown refinery, the pilot of the Sikorsky chopper expressed more than a little reluctance to go up into a sky that was black with rain and clouds and a vicious wind.

“You only need to get me to the landing pad at the LBJ Space Center,” Sandor told him. “They’ve got a military transport waiting for me there.”

Now the pilot looked at him as if he were insane. “That’s flying dead into the storm.”

“‘Dead’ is a bad choice of words,” Sandor said as he ran up the steps to the helipad. “Now crank this thing up,” he ordered, then climbed aboard the helicopter.

As they rose into the dark sky, Sandor grabbed the radio headset and had another quick discussion with Captain Krause, then was patched back on the line with the men assigned by the various state and local authorities to coordinate the search for the missing tractor-trailer. Given the time elapsed since the truck left Coulter Airfield, the absence of any information on its direction and the scope of its possible destinations, there was little cause for optimism among them.

“They could have even changed the markings on the trailer by now,” the officer with the State Highway patrol said, “or switched the cargo to another vehicle.”

“Possible,” Sandor said, “but not likely. The trailer we’re looking for appears to be specially fitted out. And no matter what they do to the logo on the back, they can’t disguise all the doors that are cut into the side. No, my guess is that they simply don’t believe we’ll be able to find them in time.” He paused. “They may be right.”