Vince climbed back up to the bridge and ordered the first mate to head south through the Hecate Straight, toward Vancouver. He activated the pumps that would drain the water from the hidden chamber and breathed a sigh of relief. The Semtex was finally, after several weeks, out of his custody.
At this point the Haramosh Star was some ten miles northwest of the BC coastal city of Prince Rupert, which, in its turn, was nearly 500 miles north of Vancouver. The coastal geography north of Vancouver was rugged and mountainous, punctuated by long fjords and impassable mountains. The only way to get to Prince Rupert from Vancouver by motor vehicle was through an inland route — north to Prince George, and then 400 miles farther to the west.
Prince Rupert was the terminus of the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, a northern trans-Canada line, now doing business as the Canadian National Railway, or “CNR.” There was also a large coal terminal located there, which served as the storage area for the massive inland mines that delivered coal to the world. With China’s ever-growing appetite for raw materials, the port had become a bustling place — very different from the sleepy days of the late Twentieth Century. It wasn’t, however, Vince’s destination. It was nowhere close.
The Haramosh Star headed south instead, toward the container terminal at Vancouver, where she was expected. Jimmy and the submersible headed northeast, about 50 feet below the water surface. His speed was 25 knots. The PWS people had done a lot of tweaking to develop a submersible that was able to reach that kind of speed. It would take him roughly six hours to reach his destination. By that time the Haramosh Star would be well on her way, and it would be almost impossible to connect her to the transfer that would take place. Should anyone be looking.
Had the submersible surfaced during the trip, she would have been in some of the most magnificent scenery in the world. She was headed up a long fjord known as the Portland Canal, which served as the border between British Columbia and Alaska. To the northwest lay an amazing view of the Misty Fjords National Monument, one of America’s least-visited National Parks. No roads ran through it, and no towns or villages existed within its borders. Blue ice glaciers extended almost to sea level around the sub, and lofty waterfalls cascaded from thousand-foot cliff walls. The sub would travel more than 100 miles through such scenery — the entire length of the Portland Canal. Situated at the head of the Canal was the BC village of Stewart.
Stewart itself was more or less a friendly ghost town. Prior to World War I, it had boasted a population of over 10,000. At the time, several mines had been in production or development in the area, and word was spreading that Stewart was another Klondike in the making, with rich veins of ore just beneath the surface. But gradually the optimism had faded, the mines had closed down, and the development had petered out. Now the town was deserted. The current population of Stewart was less than 700, most of it devoted to tourism and fishing. It had become an important spoke in Yousseff’s operations, for just this reason.
When he estimated that he was about 50 miles up the canal, Jimmy brought the submersible to the surface. It was 2AM. There was a bright moon, and he could see the silhouetted shadows of the Bear Glacier peaks rising behind Stewart. He was only ten miles from Stewart when the sun finally rose. At that point being so visible made him nervous, and he decided to take the submersible back down. Early morning fishermen often traversed the canal, emptying crab traps and setting lines. There was no point in risking discovery.
A long series of wharves and pilings ran alongside the dirt road that left Stewart — hundred-year-old reminders of the boomtown days of yore. At a prearranged spot, at a prearranged time, measured almost to the second, Jimmy surfaced among them. His sub was three feet away from an ancient, but still sturdy, wharf. The glass cockpit of the submersible slid back, and two ropes were immediately tossed his way. Jimmy caught them and began to secure his sub to the wharf.
“Yo, Ba’al! Ba’al Baki! Good to see you. You too, Izzy,” he said, smiling up at the two property barons. This mission’s importance was obvious. Yousseff had sent two men from his most intimate circle to attend to the reload.
“You too, Jimmy. Wish we could talk, but this one’s too serious,” said Izzy. “Let’s get the reload done, eh?”
Izzy wore blue jeans, an old T-shirt, and a cap that had the words “John Deere” written across the front. Ba’al wore blue sweat pants, an old plaid shirt, and a windbreaker. They had both been totally Canadianized, right down to their speech.
The sleek HMS John A. Macdonald pulled up beside the Haramosh Star. Captain LeMaitre requested permission to board, which Vince immediately granted, given that the Haramosh Star was now in Canadian waters.
“Good morning, Captain,” said Vince, without the slightest trace of anxiety. “What can we do for you today?”
“Aren’t you a little off course?” asked Captain LeMaitre. “What’s your destination? You’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“We are headed to Vancouver, sir,” replied Vince.
“That being the case, what on earth are you doing next to Prince Rupert, north of Dundas Island?” asked LeMaitre suspiciously.
“I do realize we’re in the wrong spot. But it’s like this,” said Vince, sweeping an arm over the containers sitting on the deck below him. “You have probably heard of my ship. She is the Haramosh Star, remember, the vessel that the American SEAL team intercepted off the coast of Sri Lanka.”
“Yes, of course,” answered LeMaitre. “We know what happened to your ship. That caused a hell of a political furor. But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing in the wrong spot.”
Vince hung his head in mock embarrassment. “There was a lot of stress as a result of the SEAL incursion. I made a mistake. We were destined for Vancouver, but I became confused after the Americans boarded my ship. I thought we were destined for the new container port in Prince Rupert. We just figured out an hour ago that we weren’t, and that what’s left of my cargo has to go to Vancouver.”
“OK,” said LeMaitre. “Vancouver is that way. Around Dundas Island and then straight south through the Hecate Straits. Pull out your charts and I’ll show you.”
Vince dutifully pulled out a detailed map of the west coast of British Columbia. “You’re here,” said LeMaitre, pointing to the map. “Here’s your bearing. This should be your route around the island. Have a good day.” He walked past the damaged and opened containers, looked inside a few, shook his head, and then headed toward the stairs that connected the HMS John A. McDonald to the larger Haramosh Star. He prepared a brief report, and emailed it to the Vancouver office.
34
Mahari was beside himself. A fourth message. Four. He was officially a millionaire, more or less — there were now four Samsonite cases, each containing a quarter million big American dollars in cash. Along with that, his prestige and fame were escalating rapidly. Each news segment began with the statement, “This is Mahari Dosanj, reporting for Al Jazeera, Islamabad,” and closed in the same manner. He was doing longer summaries as well, and was beginning work on an hour-long documentary about the experience. He had arrived, and was planning to take full advantage. Sure, it was a bad situation, and he wasn’t interested in terrorism or jihad, but as long as there was money to be made…