“That would be unbelievable. We have an enviable security record, and our procedures are approved by DOD. And it was the Navy who blew the security on the boats. You listen to me, Admiral. The loss of these boats is nothing but a setback for AMDI. Until the testing is completed, we are at a standstill. I want them back more than you do. Instead of harassing me, you should be chasing down the Warriors of Allah, or whatever the hell they are.”
“Do you think the Warriors of Allah took the boats?” Monahan asked.
“I don’t know who took them. You’ve got more information than I have.”
Malgard did not like the way the commander looked at him. He also did not care for the son of a bitch’s questions. As soon as he got home tonight, he would toss the telephone bill from last month.
He did not want anyone seeing the call made from Glen Burnie to The Washington Post.
Abdul Hakim, master of the Hormuz, was skeptical of Ibrahim Badr’s claims about the Sea Spectre, but then the tanker captain was a cynic of high degree.
He was also as slovenly in appearance as was the Hormuz, Badr thought. The tanker, built in 1959 and capable of transporting only 16,000 tons of Arabian crude, was long past her useful lifespan. Her hull plates were streaked with rust that was thick as pita. The decks were littered with paper, chicken bones, and coagulated oil.
Hakim’s skin was a streaky yellow, the result of an unsuccessful battle with jaundice. He wore a beard that was untrimmed and skimpy. The whites of his eyes were orange, and his fingernails were black. The skin of his hands was impregnated with stains of unknown origin.
Despite his appearance, he was lord of the tanker, and he ruled his realm with the steadfast ruthlessness of a nineteenth-century pasha.
He had been apoplectic over Badr’s stationing of armed guards in the hatchways of the Sea Spectre while Badr slept for almost a full day, regaining the forty hours of sleep he had lost during the infiltration of the American mainland and the foray on the Naval Ship Research and Development Center.
Now, Hakim stood at the bottom of the tank, like an arrogant goat, looking up at Badr in the hatchway of the Sea Spectre. Despite the blowers and ducting intended to ventilate, the heat at the bottom of the tank was ferocious, and the sweat dripped from the man’s face.
“I want to see for myself, Colonel Badr.”
“I think your orders simply state that you are to assist the Warriors of Allah in any manner possible, Captain Hakim.”
“Though not blindly,” the captain retorted. “I am still in charge of my vessel, and I will not place it in jeopardy for reasons of minor importance.”
Badr considered that Allah meant for him to make the journey through his lifetime suffering the idiocy of fools.
“Very well. You may come aboard, but you are not to reveal to anyone what you see.” Badr nodded to Amin Kadar, and the man lowered the rope ladder to the bottom of the tank, which was about five meters below the hatchway.
The fat captain struggled valiantly with the swaying ladder and finally reached the hatch. He was panting loudly, and the massive stomach under his filthy khaki shirt heaved as he pulled himself inside. He wore a red-and-white-checked kuffiyah that hid his dirty black hair. His khaki pants were torn at the knees, and he wore rubber sandals.
Badr backed up and turned forward into the short corridor leading to the control center. At the hatchway on the other side, Ibn el-Ziam leaned against the open portal and grinned at Badr.
Badr nodded his head, agreeing with el-Ziam’s silent appraisal of the good captain Hakim.
In the main cabin of the boat, Heusseini and Rahman looked up as Badr and Hakim entered. The Warriors of Allah claimed a membership of fifty-six, but only the five men — now four — Badr had brought with him were fluent in English. He was happy that he had recognized the necessity. The manuals that Omar Heusseini and Ahmed Rahman were poring over were filled with engineering and scientific terms that none of them had ever heard, much less seen in print, before. It would have been so much magical gibberish to the Arabic-only speakers in his band. As it was, there was more guesswork taking place in the interpretation of the manuals than Badr could have wished.
Badr stopped and leaned against the table in the eating area while Hakim looked around the cabin, some degree of wonderment growing in his face.
Badr felt himself the captain of his own kingdom. He was tall and lean in fresh khakis, though the extreme heat was already taking its toll. His black hair was cut short and combed back on the sides. The experience of combat was in his dark eyes, and the hard, abrupt planes of his face were finished in flat olive. He folded his muscular arms over his chest and let his eyes follow Hakim as the man peered at the radios, the sonar, the radar, the intricacies of the instrument panel.
“It is but a toy,” Hakim said.
The man operated his tanker on a compass, a barometer, and an ancient radar set; everything else was broken.
“But it is a lethal toy.”
Hakim spread his hands expansively, rapping Heusseini on the back of the head in the process. “I do not see it.”
“Come.”
Badr led the man back down the short corridor to the missile bay, opened the door, and turned on the lights.
The missiles gleamed dully in their racks along the side of the hull, each of them painted a midnight blue and identified with small white letters and numerals. Each was about a meter-and-a-half long and fifteen centimeters in diameter. Four short, movable fins were located at the rear, and two stubby wings were fixed at midlength. Badr had tried to lift one from its cradle, but the weight was too great. It explained the small cranes set into the forward corners of the cargo area.
The missile launcher itself was an engineering marvel, as far as Badr was concerned. The base was composed of interlocking beams made of some matte gray material he had not seen before. It collapsed into the hold by a scissoring action and, when fully extended, probably stood two to three meters above the boat’s deck. The top of the launcher had rails for four missiles, with a blast deflector plate mounted to the rear. It appeared that the launcher head rotated in a full circle, as well as moved up and down in an arc of perhaps forty-five degrees.
“Is that lethal enough for you, Captain Hakim?”
The captain crossed to the side bulkhead and caressed a missile with his dirty hand. “They are impressive, Badr. How do they perform?”
Badr shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? We will find out soon enough.”
“As soon as we reach the Gulf.” The captain smiled, revealing a broken tooth.
“There has been a change in plans,” Badr said. “We will not immediately return to the Arabian Gulf.”
The Westerners called it the Persian Gulf, but they were in error about that, as they were about almost everything in his homeland. In reality, Badr did not have a homeland. He was Palestinian, a guest in Iraq, Libya, Syria, and Lebanon for all of his life. He was determined to right that wrong, and the means to the end required the elimination of western influence in the Middle East.
In that quest, he had been tutored by the best of his brethren, studying under such as Abu Taan of the Palestinian Armed Struggle Command and Abu Nidal of the Black June Organization.
Originally, he had planned to use the boat to sink the supertankers that plied the Gulf, choking off the energy so vital to the Americans and Europeans.
That was the plan Hakim was following. “We are already underway for the Gulf, Badr.”
“Your orders are to support my cause, Hakim. And my cause is to strike at the infidels where I can.” He stuck a finger out, pointing at a missile. “That weapon allows me to bring the battle to the American shore. That is what we will do.”