At the age of twelve, and with his grandfather’s blessing, young Medina joined the Abu Sayyaf freedom fighters in the service of Allah, where his non-Moro appearance and official identity were considered gifts from Allah to blind the infidels’ eyes. He was a resource, and a valuable one, and the leaders of Abu Sayyaf reckoned he would be more valuable still if he had a legitimate cover to roam the world. When the time was right, Ronald Carlito Medina entered the Davao Merchant Marine Academy.
Medina started awake as the train jerked to a stop in Novena station. He dashed off the train and up the escalator into Novena Mall, past chain stores and fast-food outlets to settle at a terminal in an Internet café. The meeting with his contact the previous day had been troubling, providing a mission but few resources. And the American Dugan’s almost constant presence aboard Asian Trader was another unanticipated complication. But Allah would provide. He moved the mouse and clicked on a link for the website of the Panama Canal Authority.
Chapter Three
Dugan stood on the dock and watched as Sheibani, the chief mate, manned Alicia’s bridge wing and spoke into a walkie-talkie, and the crew took in mooring lines in response. They got to a certain point and stopped.
“What the fuck’s going on?” asked Chief Petty Officer Vega beside him. “They singled up lines fore and aft and then just stopped, and the friggin’ gangway’s still down.”
In answer to his question, a cab raced onto the dock and skidded to a stop near the gangway. A disheveled Captain Flip-Flop exited the cab, shoved a wad of money through the driver’s-side window, and lurched up the gangway in an unsteady trot. He reached the top to derisive cheers from the crew and disappeared into the deck house, as the crew set about taking in the gangway.
“Christ if that doesn’t look like standard operating procedure,” Vega said as he watched the crew take in the final lines.
“Yeah, I’d have to agree that doesn’t look like it was unexpected,” Dugan said as they watched a tug warp Alicia away from the dock.
“Well,” Vega said, “thank God it’s only two days and that the chief mate seems to have his shit together.”
Dugan nodded silent agreement as he stood beside the navy man and watched Alicia move into the channel. One ship away and one to go, he thought as his mind drifted to Asian Trader sitting on drydock less than a mile away. That was a strange one. Asian Trader had been in the yard over a week and Alex Kairouz hadn’t called once. Alex was a hands-on guy, and though Dugan knew he had Alex’s complete trust, he also knew Alex was incapable of staying aloof from the myriad details of his business. At least he had been that way.
“I guess that’s it then,” said Vega beside him, pulling Dugan back to the present. “Thanks for the help, Mr. Dugan.” Vega extended his hand.
“My pleasure, Chief,” Dugan said, as he shook Vega’s hand. “I guess I’d better get on over to the yard and see what latest crisis is brewing on Asian Trader.
Broussard looked out from the bridge wing over the waters of the strait and suppressed a yawn. His attempt at sleep off watch had yielded catnaps between sweaty awakenings, as the decrepit air conditioning of the four-man cabin he shared with his team had labored in vain. The sun was low now, so maybe nightfall would lessen the strain on the antiquated cooling system. Perhaps Hopkins and Santiago, now off watch, would have better luck sleeping than he and Washington had.
He’d just begun his second six-hour watch, but he was already sweating. The body armor was hot, and he was restrained from shedding it only by Chief Vega’s graphic description of what he would do to anyone who did. Broussard’s single concession to comfort was his helmet strapped to his web gear instead of on his head.
“How do you copy?” asked Washington’s voice in Broussard’s ear, as his subordinate checked in from his position on the stern.
“Five by five,” Broussard said.
He looked up as Sheibani approached with his ever-present smile. Nice little guy, he thought, though he talked like an Asian in a crappy TV movie.
“Mr. Broussard,” Sheibani said, “you sleep very good, yes? Cabin OK?”
“Just fine,” Broussard lied, “thanks for your hospitality.”
“Good,” Sheibani said, squinting into the distance. “What that?”
Broussard followed Sheibani’s gaze and said over his shoulder, “I don’t—”
A light burst behind Broussard’s eyes as he dropped, equipment clattering. Sheibani pocketed the sap and knelt to bind the American’s wrists before rising to move away, his smile now genuine.
Broussard awoke to a throbbing head, the scuffed blue tile of the officers’ lounge cool on his cheek and filling his vision. He was gagged and bound hand and foot, the night sky through the portholes telling him the sun had set.
“Ah, Broussard,” said a strangely familiar voice, “you decided to rejoin us.”
He ignored his pounding head and twisted to look up, then tried to twist away as Sheibani pried his eye wide with thumb and forefinger and a bright light obliterated his vision. He squirmed as Sheibani repeated the process on the other eye.
“Good,” Sheibani said. “Pupils equal and reactive. I feared a concussion. I don’t normally use nonlethal force. It was a learning experience.”
Broussard’s curse emerged as an irritated grunt through the tape covering his mouth.
“Patience, Broussard,” Sheibani said. “I want to hear what you have to say, but first you must listen.”
He barked orders and two crewmen manhandled Broussard into a chair. Hands bound behind, he balanced on the edge of the seat, feet pressed to the deck. Hopkins and Santiago perched nearby, similarly restrained. All were barefoot and stripped to their utility trousers. Broussard’s hope surged at Washington’s absence then died as quickly.
“While you napped,” Sheibani said, “Washington and I chatted.”
Sheibani nodded and his subordinates stepped into the passageway and dragged in a plastic-wrapped bundle, leaving it in front of the three Americans and throwing back the plastic. Washington was face up, blood pooled in empty eye sockets. The severed fingers of one hand, his genitals, and his eyeballs were piled in the center of his massive chest. Ebony skin was flayed in wide strips and blood wept from raw flesh to pool on the plastic. Broussard screwed his eyes shut and fought rising vomit. Hopkins did the same, but Santiago made strangling noises, vomit pulsing from his nose. Sheibani ripped the tape from Santiago’s mouth as the sailor retched on the corpse and then coughed wetly before managing a ragged breath.
Washington had told Sheibani nothing. He had, in fact, spit in Sheibani’s face, sending the Iranian into a rage that ended in Washington’s death. Sheibani regretted his loss of control, but, after some thought, decided Washington would serve him in death as he’d refused to in life. As horrible as the mutilations to the big man’s body appeared, they occurred when he was beyond feeling pain.
“I suspected,” Sheibani lied, “there were tracking devices. Washington provided the locations, maintaining to the end there were three. But I’m a suspicious fellow. I could question each of you, but that would be tedious. Instead, Broussard, I will question you. You don’t know which locations Washington divulged, so you must reveal them all. If you refuse, I kill your colleagues and resort to more painful techniques. Understood?”