“The weapon of mass destruction.” Abdulyale flicked his cigarette out the window. “Mr. Stone, hear me. You and your people will not board that vessel while it’s in the harbor. I will not chance having those jihadists blowing up my city.”
Stone said he understood. He studied the lines of the vessel. Like many ships plying the African coast, it was an ancient freighter, needing a good coat of paint. It resembled a WWII Victory ship, except it was smaller — he judged about 250 feet in length. The engine room, he guessed, would be toward the stern.
“Do you know the size of the crew?” Stone asked.
After Abdulyale spoke at length with his driver in an unfamiliar language, possibly the Fulani lingua franca, Fulfulde, he said, “The normal complement is around twenty men, but we saw crew members leaving the ship with their belongings. Asuty’s men are replacing them.”
“Damn!” Stone pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face. The car’s interior had become hot with the air conditioning turned off. “If terrorists can learn to fly commercial jets, they certainly can learn how to handle a ship.” However, Stone knew a crew unfamiliar with the port and littoral needed help to sail twenty miles downstream to open water.
Stone thanked him for the information and asked to be taken back to his companions. During the ride, Abdulyale emphasized that he and his people would closely watch Stone and the ship until it set sail.
Returning to the SUV, Stone told Sandra and Dirk Lange they had less than three hours to come up with a plan. “That’s when the ship is scheduled to leave for South America. Abdulyale won’t allow an assault on the ship while it’s in port. He’s afraid Asuty will detonate the bomb.”
“Reasonable position,” Dirk said. “Why not let it sail, and when it reaches mid-Atlantic have one of your submarines torpedo it?”
“Great idea,” Sandra said, “but the Washington lawyers and bleeding-heart environmentalists would have a heyday. A nuclear bomb lying on the bottom of the ocean.”
Sandra’s secure satellite phone rang and she whispered that Colonel Frederick was on the line. She held her hand over the handset and said Frederic and the team had landed at the airfield. He wanted to talk with Stone. Taking the phone, Stone gave him a rundown on the location of the ship and Abdulyale’s position regarding any plan of assault.
“Screw him!” Frederick said. “We know where Asuty and the bomb are. We’re not letting either get out of our hands again.”
Stone got the message. “Colonel. I’ve cased the area. A raid would be very difficult. The ship is tied up on a quay with nothing around it. Absolutely no concealment to hide our approach. Abdulyale’s people have the area under surveillance. If Asuty has a nuclear engineer with him, they could set the damn thing off before we could get to it.”
“I’m running this show, correct, Stone?”
“Absolutely.”
“My decision is we board the ship. So get prepared,” Frederick ordered. “We’re leaving the airfield shortly. Have an attack plan ready.”
Stone handed the phone back to Sandra. “Even after I explained the situation, Frederick wants to launch an assault.”
Both Sandra and Dirk shrugged. Sandra said, “This whole operation could get real melancholy.”
“Maybe not, if we come up with an alternative plan.” Stone dialed Carl Cardinale. When he answered, Stone asked, “Could you get the name of the harbor pilot who’s taking the SS Natal Bay out of port at six o’clock?”
Carl said he could and told him to hold on, saying he’d phone somebody on his landline. Two minutes later, he gave Stone a name, adding, “This guy is real slime. He’s a big shot at a local charity that sends money to the jihadists in Palestine.”
“Shit!” Stone said after hanging up. He told his companions what he learned. As he spoke to them, an idea came to him, and he called Abdulyale.
“Mr. Abdulyale. A harbor pilot has to take the ship out to open water beyond Cameroon’s jurisdiction. Then a pilot boat comes alongside the ship, and he is taken off and brought back to port.” Stone paused. “We could be on that pilot boat. As the pilot leaves the ship, we could get on.”
“Very risky, but that would be your problem,” Abdulyale said. “Not mine.”
“I have another problem.” Stone gave him the pilot’s name and explained he could ruin the plan.
“That particular individual is on my organization’s list for questioning on smuggling matters. I’ll see that a more reasonable person will be assigned.”
Stone’s mind was racing. “Another thing. Is it possible that we can lease three fast motor boats, large enough to operate on open seas?”
Another pause at the end of the line. Finally, Abdulyale said, “Of course. It so happens I have a cousin in the boating business. This can be arranged. Unfortunately, he charges extremely high rates for his boats.”
“Under the circumstances. I’m certain my organization will see no problem.”
After he rang off, Stone took a deep breath. His companions stared at him. Sandra laughed. “I want to be there when you explain all this to Colonel Frederick.”
“Ah. The colonel admires initiative.”
In the cramped safe house, Colonel Gustave Frederick arched his back, threw out his chest, looked down his aquiline nose, and began pacing back and forth. Stone pictured Gus in full-dress Army uniform, similar to General George Patton, wearing khaki jodhpurs, riding boots, and slapping a swagger stick on his leg. He wished he would get over his theatrics, so they could get on with business.
Frederick surprised everyone. “Stone, with reservations, I say we set this plan of yours in motion.”
“I need some volunteers to come with me on the pilot boat,” Stone said.
Sandra, Dirk, and Jacob came forward. They were asked to decide on the choice of weapons and communication gear. “We want to take control of the bridge,” Stone said. “Once we do that, Colonel Frederick and the assault team can come alongside in the power boats and board. Then we’ll go down into the engine room.”
“How many of the enemy will we face?” a CIA operative asked.
“Eighteen or nineteen,” Jacob said. “We’ll have them outnumbered once we get all our people aboard the ship.”
“Our objective is to seize the nuclear bomb,” Frederick said. “After that we wait for a US Navy amphibious ship that’s just entered the Bay of Biscay. It will take a while for them to meet us.”
“Any other help nearby?” Stone asked Frederick.
“There’s a submarine in the vicinity,” he answered, “but it can’t be much help in an operation like this.”
Stone asked Sandra what time it was.
“We have less than an hour.”
“Not much time,” Stone said. “Let’s get cracking.”
The pilot boat trailed in the wake of the SS Natal Bay steaming down the river toward the Gulf of Guinea. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving traces of a saffron-yellow glow on the cloud layer overhead.
Stone crouched in the bow section of the pilot boat and peered out at the ship ahead. His three companions sat next to him, checking their arms and extra ammunition. The brackish air coming in the open porthole relieved some of the oil and diesel fuel stench hanging inside the cabin. He calculated that in less than five minutes they’d board the ship. Sitting back, he followed his companions’ routine and made sure his weapons and communication gear were in working order.
The freighter slowed as it entered the open estuary leading to deep water. The pilot would be leaving the ship. From behind a half-opened hatch, Stone looked up at the ship’s deck. Crew members above lowered the accommodation ladder for the pilot to climb down from the ship. The boat pulled alongside the ship, bumping against the hull with its row of huge old truck tires lining the gunwale.