Shadows of the Deep, page 36
He looked up, meeting Welt’s eyes with a resolute stare. “Keep me updated on every move. I want to know the moment the SAS boards the Reef Explorer, the status of the USS Lincoln, any murmur from the Russians, and especially any more information on Conrad Ford and Armitech.”
Welt nodded, the gesture solid and sure, understanding the mantle of his duty. “Absolutely, Mr. President. First-hand information, as it comes.”
As Welt exited, President Shelby turned to the window, gazing out as the twilight danced on the horizon, pondering the lives in his hands. In the silence of the Oval Office, with the night drawing in, he felt the loneliness of command. He picked up the phone, ready to make more calls, to shore up international support, and to prepare for any fallout.
Outside, the world continued to turn, unaware of how different tomorrow might look.
Chapter 19: Race Against Time
Aziz was deep in a high-stakes game of hide and seek. Fate had thrown him against a cunning and sharp adversary in Stahmer. They kept moving, always one step ahead, scanning escape routes and marking hijacker sightings. They ducked into the waste disposal, then to the crew canteen hidden in the ship’s belly and slipped into the laundry at the hint of danger. They even snuck into the wheelhouse bar, now holing up in the life jacket storage on deck five.
They’d had a few close shaves with the Arab and Somali pursuers, but the run-in with the Africans earlier was hair-raising. Shultz was on watch, holing up in the lifeboat across from the storeroom, concealed within. He peered through a salt-battered Perspex window, keeping a vigilant eye on the life jacket store’s entry. Armed with a hefty metal bar, he was poised to pounce from his lookout in the lifeboat if trouble came knocking. Meanwhile, Ghislaine was prepping for any showdown, pinning her long black hair into a tight, no-nonsense Swiss bun, not about to let it become a liability.
Stahmer was on the sat phone to Geneva. After a quick check-in with Fabienne, the line was switched to Cutler on the USS Lincoln.
“Stahmer, what’s the situation?” Cutler’s voice crackled through.
“Just keeping our heads above water,” Stahmer replied.
Cutler, finding a secluded corner in the wardroom to escape the relentless noise of the Lincoln’s flight deck, relayed the fresh intel. “Here’s what Fabienne unearthed. This Umair Aziz, actually Richard Hussein from Birmingham. London radicalised him, then he did rounds in Al-Qaeda camps in Yemen, Afghanistan. Nabbed in Iraq, 2012. But then, there’s this blank spot in his file, up until Abu Ghraib, just before the big jailbreak in 2013.”
“And his expertise?” Stahmer enquired.
“Tech savvy, but he’s seen combat in Afghanistan and Iraq. Was on a Most Wanted list, then declared dead. Interesting, eh?”
“What about the African, Awaale?”
“Only got the first name. Common in Somalia. Of the three we know, one’s dead in Libya, another’s too old. Our Awaale’s the third, from Marka. Loose ties with Al-Shabaab, not a zealot, but plays ball with radicals for survival. And easy to spot—childhood leprosy scars.”
Stahmer mulled over the details. “So we’ve bumped into Awaale already. Any family ties for either him or Azziz that we know of?”
“Aziz is a lone wolf, no ties left. Awaale, though, he’s got a wife, four kids. Here’s a twist—Kenyans tore through his village, Awaale was the main mark. Stripped him clean, Fabienne says. Happened two weeks before he met with Aziz in Jordan. My bet? Awaale was cornered, forced into this gig.”
“Hmm, he’s the fall guy, then,” Stahmer pondered.
“Either that, or Aziz needed a black African face to paint this as a hijack, not terrorism, didn’t last too long that fairy tale,” Cutler suggested.
“Not exactly a smooth plan, was it?”
“They didn’t count on Guano making it out to tell us Arabs were in charge. And they sure as hell didn’t know you’d be on that ship, Stahmer. Without those, the world might still be buying the hijack story.”
“Or maybe they needed time to rig the explosives. Any idea on the real target, Cutler?”
“It’s a crapshoot. Could be the Suez, Israeli radars, Syrian nuclear site, prelude to an Iranian strike on Israel, or targeting tourist-packed beaches.”
“A lot of variables,” Stahmer acknowledged.
“There’s another player—Sheldrake. Seems he’s the brains. Fabienne’s digging through Bali’s immigration records for a match.”
“She’s hacking into it?”
“Fabienne’s doing her thing. Back to you—seen any big guns on board?”
“We’ve spotted boxes on the upper deck, under constant watch. They’ve shown off grenade launchers and there’s the explosives on deck six.”
“Got it. What’s the enemy layout? Arabs and Somalis mixed?”
“Last I checked Arabs on the bridge, mixed teams in the engine room, rear deck, and doing sweeps. An Arab on deck ten, sometimes with a launcher.”
“So the back’s heavily guarded, eyes on all approaches. And they’re watching the explosives.”
“That’s the setup. We’ve got two plans. If you think Plan A is dead in the water, I’ll back your call, you’re the man on the ground.”
“Plan A’s talking to the Somali leader. Tell him the US president’s offering a clean slate and a million per head for his crew. No backlash, now or ever.”
“Hang on,” Stahmer said, turning to brief Ghislaine.
“What’s plan B?”
“No contact or help from the Somalis. Your team needs to take control of the poop deck, neutralizing the guards. We need this done sharp at 2000 hours. We’ll need your team on the stern deck to assist our boarding.”
“Boarding?” Stahmer clarified.
“Not fully greenlit by the president yet, but I expect it soon.”
“Any special forces?”
“After the explosives are handled, SAS will move in,” Cutler confirmed.
“Roger that,” Stahmer responded, turning to Ghislaine. “We need to position ourselves on the poop deck. Grab some knives from the galley and meet me here in ten. I’ve got to get Shultz up to speed on the plan.”
“Alright. I need a moment to plan this out,” Ghislaine said, already mapping her route in her mind.
The ship’s stairwell, a ‘V’ lying on its side, offered a tactical advantage for Ghislaine. With her shoes off for stealth, she hugged the wall as she descended. On deck four, Somali chatter made her pause. Peeking around, she spotted two guards, neither showing signs of leprosy.
She moved down to deck three, quieter, lined with cabins and laundry facilities but devoid of bars or eateries. Dead passengers and crew members lay scattered, a grim reminder of the situation’s severity. She made her way to the galley, the tension palpable with each step.
In the galley, she swiftly collected two large knives and a meat cleaver, carefully placing them into a day bag, cushioned by an apron to silence any clinking. Exiting the kitchen, her heart skipped a beat as she nearly collided with a Somali guard. He froze, eyeing her curiously as he lit a cigarette, the semi-automatic rifle across his chest remaining untouched. It was his patrol area; encountering him was inevitable in the chaos of the hijacked vessel.
Ghislaine, prepared for such encounters, had developed a contingency plan back in the life jacket store, ready to adapt to the unfolding situation.
The Somali mistook her for just another crew member.
She scooped up her breasts. “You like these?” Ghislaine taunted, feigning vulnerability.
The Somali’s gaze didn’t waver, his words crude. “Nice,” he remarked, moving closer with a predatory glare.
“How about some privacy in the galley?” Ghislaine suggested, steering him away from the corridor.
Once inside the kitchen, the Somali maintained a cautious distance, his hand never straying far from his weapon. “Take off your blouse and skirt. Gotta check for weapons,” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Ghislaine complied, she put on a show for the Somali ensuring his eyes never left her body as she laid down her day bag and slowly shed her clothing. Ghislaine was left in her blue lace bra and matching high cut panties. “See? I carry no weapons; I am not here to hurt you.”
The big Somali laughed, “Hurt me? Little girl could not hurt me.”
“You are right; I could not hurt you.”
The Somali still held the cigarette and moved towards her; with his free hand he began to unzip his pants. He dropped the Marlboro to the floor and crushed it with his boot. “Make me happy,” he said and advanced towards her with his enlarged penis in hand.
Ghislaine dropped to her knees in compliant mode, which excited the Somali more. Ghislaine clutched the sizeable black member with her left hand; the Somali rolled his eyes in pleasure. She maintained the foreplay while using her right hand deftly searching her day bag. The Somali placed both his hands on the back of her head pushing her lightly at first towards him and then increased the force. Pushing her downwards for a second, he could not understand why it was not the pleasurable experience expected, and when he moved her back why her face was bloody. In her left hand, she held his penis and, in her right, was a kitchen knife. He looked down bewildered, and the pain hit him from where she had severed his manhood. His reaction was to drop both hands to the area to stem the blood, and his legs gave way.
Cutler had ensured all MIDAS agents who had not been in the forces had one-to-one combat training, using a variety of weapons and objects. Ghislaine had undergone the training with enthusiasm, impressing her instructors. However, that was under controlled conditions, and she had never had to use force before, let alone kill. Ghislaine comprehended she had to act quickly before the Somali’s screams brought along uninvited guests or he attacked her. Before he could howl again, she thrust the boning knife into his throat. He collapsed, moving his hands from his groin to try to stem the aerated blood.
Ghislaine, with a steely resolve, dragged the Somali’s body into the freezer. She quickly cleaned the blood from the deck and galley walls, then hosed herself down, redressing with haste. She armed herself with the Somali’s semi-automatic and spare magazines. Retracing her steps with cautious precision, she moved past the lifeboat, slipping into the life jacket store unnoticed.
No sooner had she closed the door behind her than Shultz emerged from the lifeboat, following her in. Ghislaine placed the semi-automatic and the three knives on the table.
Stahmer, eyeing the weapons and her dishevelled state, remarked, “Looks like you had a bit of a situation.”
“Just a minor hiccup,” Ghislaine responded, fighting to keep her emotions in check.
Shultz, blunt as ever, asked, “Is the problem… permanently solved?”
“Yeah, hid the body,” Ghislaine said, her voice steady despite the ordeal.
“Right, let’s not get hung up on that. Good news is, we’ve got ourselves some weapons now, thanks to you,” Stahmer acknowledged, nodding at Ghislaine.
Stahmer reached for the sat phone, punching in Fabienne’s number, but instead, it was Cutler’s voice that boomed through, nearly drowned out by the chaos around him—the unmistakable roar of a Pave Hawk helicopter prepping for the mission.
“Hold on, Stahmer, just need to find a quieter spot,” Cutler’s voice boomed over the din, giving Tuck a nod to keep prepping the bird.
A moment later, the line cleared. “Alright, I’m somewhere I can hear you now,” Cutler said, having commandeered a space in the wardroom, much to the chagrin of a couple of sailors.
“We’re set here. Got a semi-auto and a stash of knives, all courtesy of Ghislaine,” Stahmer reported.
“Ghislaine?” Cutler echoed. “Got the green light from the top brass, we’re a go,” Cutler’s voice crackled through the satellite phone.
“What’s the play?” Stahmer asked, ready for the details.
“We’ll be hitting the poop deck from the sky, 2030 hours. Need Shultz to guide us in; you’re on point,” Cutler instructed.
Stahmer frowned. “That’s a tight spot for a landing. How you planning to nail that?”
Cutler’s voice was calm. “We’ve got a strategy. But we’ll need Shultz to secure the chutes, quick-like, or the wind will whip us overboard. We drop in 20-second waves.”
Stahmer’s scepticism was palpable. “That’s a tall order, mate. Airdropping onto a moving target? Plus, any aircraft buzzing too close will get smoked by their SAMs.”
“Two teams,” Cutler confirmed, “One team will approach from the sea, we will be the second team and will jump from several miles out using the flying suits, then parachute down onto the deck.”
Stahmer, Ghislaine, and Shultz moved like shadows through the Reef Explorer, their steps muffled against the ship’s steel floors. The air was thick with tension, each turn a potential encounter with the Arab terrorists patrolling the corridors. Stahmer led the way, his eyes scanning every corner, every possible hiding spot. Ghislaine followed closely, her senses on high alert, her hand gripping the semi-automatic she had acquired earlier. Shultz brought up the rear, his experience making him the perfect rear guard.
They had to reach the poop deck unseen; a task akin to threading a needle in a hurricane. The ship, a labyrinth of narrow corridors and sudden open spaces, presented a challenge that Stahmer navigated with the precision of a veteran soldier. They ducked into empty cabins and utility closets, pausing to let patrols pass, their breaths held in unison. The terrorists, armed and on edge, were an ever-present threat, their voices echoing off the walls in a deluge of foreign tongues.
In one heart-stopping moment, they were nearly spotted. A pair of terrorists rounded the corner just as the trio slipped into a service alcove. Stahmer’s hand signal froze Ghislaine and Shultz in place, their backs pressed against the cold metal, the terrorists’ voices a mere whisper away. The tension was palpable, a tangible entity that gripped them until the danger passed.
Moving deeper into the ship, they encountered signs of the terrorists’ passage—discarded ammunition clips, a hastily abandoned lookout post, a map of the ship with areas circled in red. Stahmer studied it briefly, memorizing the layout, before leading them on.
As they neared the poop deck, the sound of the sea grew louder, the smell of salt air stronger. The deck was their goal, but also their biggest risk—open, exposed. Stahmer peered around a corner, his hand signalling ‘hold’. Two guards stood at the entrance to the deck, their attention focused outward, towards the sea. This was their chance.
With a series of hand gestures, Stahmer laid out a silent plan. Shultz would create a distraction on the opposite side, drawing the guards away. Ghislaine would then take point, her weapon ready, while Stahmer provided cover. It was risky, but it was their only shot.
Shultz slipped away, circling around to approach the guards from the other side. The sound of something crashing echoed moments later, the guards snapping to attention and moving off to investigate. Like wraiths, Ghislaine and Stahmer darted out, crossing the threshold onto the poop deck, the sea breeze a sudden slap against their faces.
Now concealed behind a sturdy steel door near the poop deck, Stahmer, Ghislaine, and Shultz crouched in the shadows, each moment stretching like hours. The door provided scant cover but was their best bet in staying hidden until Cutler’s team made their daring entry. The sound of the sea lapping against the ship’s hull was a constant reminder of both their isolation and the imminent danger.
Ghislaine quietly passed the semi-automatic to Shultz, who, with the deftness of a seasoned warrior, double-checked its readiness. Stahmer, meanwhile, kept his gaze laser-focused on the narrow view of the deck, his every sense sharpened to the ship’s rhythm. Shultz maintained his vigil on the corridor behind, a human shield against any unexpected threat.
The wait was a mental warfare, each team member entrenched in their own headspace, strategizing for the impending chaos that Cutler’s arrival would unleash. They were acutely aware that the fate of the hostages and the mission’s success teetered on a knife-edge.
Each distant sound, each murmur of the ship’s groan heightened their alertness. They were like coiled springs, hidden in the belly of the ship, primed to leap into action. This game of stealth and survival they played was critical, and they were the unseen force ready to strike against the terror that had hijacked the Reef Explorer.
Time seemed to slow as they braced for the climax of their operation. Stahmer exchanged a look with his team, a silent signal of their readiness.
Chapter 20: Farewell to a Friend
John Bruce, better known as ‘Jock’, was a force to be reckoned with—a blend of relentless determination and Scottish grit. His bond with Tuck was forged in the fires of Special Forces operations, a brotherhood built on shared experiences in combat and camaraderie in the downtime.
When Basmati was sidelined with an injury, and with Cortez on security duties in the Everglades, their team was at least man down. Cutler, a leader who valued trust above all in his field operatives, would only consider a new addition if Tuck or Stahmer vouched for them. Without missing a beat, Tuck threw Jock’s.
Jock, a rugged Scotsman with a penchant for whisky and a thick brogue, was wrapping up a security gig in Kuala Lumpur, playing bodyguard to a tycoon’s son—a job more about appearances than actual danger. When Tuck reached out with an offer from Cutler—a payout for his current contract plus a bonus to dig up dirt on the hijacked yachts in Bali—Jock didn’t hesitate. Bags packed; he was on an internal flight to Freemantle within hours.
His mission was clear: trace the hijacked yachts and uncover the owner of the boatyard where they were being cleaned up. Fabienne, their intel ace, fed Jock satellite data and leads, pointing him towards Fremantle in Western Australia.
Fremantle, with its Victorian architecture, felt oddly familiar to Jock, reminiscent of Glasgow or Edinburgh, albeit under a relentless Australian sun—a stark contrast to Scotland’s habitual grey skies. He familiarized himself with the locale, the watering holes, cafes, and potential exit routes—always the tactician.
