Within seconds both DSC and Inmarsat distress signals coded 39 (maritime emergency) were received by the Turkish Coast Guard Command (Sahil Güvenlik Komutanlığı) in Kuşadası, which alerted its two patrol boats on duty in the Aegean. Crews on the coast guard patrol boats scrambled. Courses were reprogrammed and throttles pulled back.
The closest Turkish patrol boat was within five and three-quarter miles of the liner when a forty-foot launch pulled alongside the Disney Magic. Terrorists inside the ship swung open the starboard cargo door and used pulleys to load the launch’s cargo of sarin canisters and additional weapons onboard. They worked quickly and expertly, as though they had rehearsed this procedure many times.
Petras, on the deck of the Magic, whistled to indicate that the cargo was safely aboard. Then he helped lower a set of aluminum stairs so that Mrs. Girard could climb down into the launch. Jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers had replaced her gown and heels.
As she prepared to climb over the railing and leave the ship, she turned to Petras and said, “As soon as we reach land we’ll issue the proclamation.”
“Good work.”
“You, too. For Syria,” she shouted above the launch’s engine.
“For Syria. Allahu akbar!”
Crocker and company were speeding up the six-lane O-21, halfway to Ankara, when the light on the sat-phone lit up. Mancini was at the wheel, with Akil asleep beside him. Janice snored gently from the back row. Davis, on the middle bench next to Crocker, answered.
He recognized Anders speaking urgently on the other end. “Davis? Where are you?”
“Sir, we just turned onto the Tarsus-Ankara freeway.”
“Put Crocker on the line. I need to talk to him immediately. It’s important.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nudged the team leader’s shoulder, but the half-conscious Crocker didn’t respond. Stan Getz’s version of “Corcovado” lilted through his earbuds, luring him toward a dreamland of tropical foliage and turquoise seas. Ahead he glimpsed a barefoot young woman in a red sarong.
“Boss.”
Crocker partially opened his left eye and waved Davis away. “I’m trying to get some rest.”
“It’s Anders. He says it’s important.”
She was brown-skinned and stunning. He didn’t want to let go of the dream. “Tell him we’ll be there after sunup. We’ll drive straight to the embassy.”
“He needs to talk to you now,” said Davis.
“Why?” he asked, coming out of his fog and wondering what the deputy director of operations wanted. He took the receiver from Davis. “Sir?”
“Crocker, where are you?”
“We’re driving. Maybe…another three hundred miles from Ankara. Should be there by around 0700.”
All he saw out the window was a flat dark landscape-no structures, no signs.
Anders said, “Text me your GPS coordinates immediately.”
“Why do you need our exact location? What’s up?”
“The next field or rest stop you come to, pull over and text me your coordinates. A TAF helicopter is on its way. I’ll be on it. When you see it, flash your emergency lights and prepare to board.”
“Yes, sir. What’s going on?”
“You’ll soon find out.”
The line went dead. As his mind revved up to process the conversation, Crocker handed the receiver back to Davis.
“What’s the story?”
“I think they located the sarin,” Crocker said.
Scott Russert was on his knees, tying his son’s sneakers and hoping to beat the early line for breakfast at the Lumiere’s dining area on Deck 3 when he heard three loud, sharp blasts over the ship’s alarm system. His entire body tensed and his blood pressure shot up.
“What’s that?” his wife asked as she emerged from the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel.
He was about to reach for the brown binder on the desk that outlined all the ship’s signals and emergency codes when Captain Hutley’s voice came over the PA system. He sounded tense and unsteady. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re currently experiencing a security situation that requires all passengers and nonessential crew to remain in their cabins until further notice. Anyone out on the decks, in the hallways, dining rooms, or other public areas, will be subject to grave danger.”
He repeated the message, then signed off.
In the pregnant silence that followed, Scott’s wife stared at him from across the cabin, her cheeks turning deep pink and her hands trembling. “Does that mean what I think it means, Scotty?”
“No, darling. Don’t go there.”
“Is something wrong, Daddy?” son Randy asked, picking up on his parents’ sudden anxiety.
“Does that mean we can’t go to breakfast now?” asked Russell.
Scott, who had trained himself to focus on practical solutions to immediate problems, started to calculate what they had in the room to feed the boys and keep them occupied until the “security situation” was resolved: a box of animal crackers, several fresh oranges, water, coffee, tea, a flat-screen TV and DVR loaded with dozens of Disney movies and TV specials.
He didn’t notice his wife and two sons surrounding him until he felt Karen’s fingers digging into his arm.
“Oh, Scott!” Her whole body was shaking.
“Daddy.”
“Yes.”
They held on to him as though he were their strength and only possible salvation from whatever danger lurked outside.
“Daddy, can we still get pancakes?”
“Does that mean the ship’s going to crash?”
“The ship’s okay, boys,” Scott said. “We’re fine.”
Someone cried out something from a room down the hall. As he listened for sounds of violence, he felt the ship slowly turning to starboard, and assumed they were returning to Turkey. Scott considered it a good sign. They’d re-dock at Kuşadası, officials would address the problem, and they’d soon be under way again.
He thought of their home back in Putney as the alarm blasted again and Captain Hutley repeated his message for the third time. After the message finished, Scott listened carefully for any sound from the cabin next door. It remained quiet.
In some deep chamber of his mind he started to put two and two together. He looked at Karen, who was wiping tears from her eyes before mouthing “Pirates?”
He shook his head, reached out, wrapped his arms around his wife and sons, and squeezed all of them together. “No, love. Don’t think like that. We’re headed back to Turkey. We’re together. We’re a family. The intrepid Russerts. We’ll be fine.”
“Will we, Dad?” Randy pleaded.
“Yes. I promise.”
The SEALs parked the Suburban in the empty parking lot of what appeared to be an abandoned factory just off the O-21 and waited for the French-made, twin-engine AS532 Cougar helicopter to circle and land. Red lights washed over the surrounding buildings and freeway, and then the landing light came on and turned the asphalt bright white.
Crocker felt adrenaline coursing through his veins as he climbed onboard and strapped himself into a seat between a security man in civilian clothes clutching an M5 and a grim-faced Grissom. The helo lifted off and banked to the right. Anders reached over the seat behind him and handed Crocker a single piece of paper.
As he read the hijackers’ statement in the dim overhead light, his blood started to heat up. Terrorists had seized control of the Disney Magic. They were threatening to release sarin and kill all the passengers unless the U.S. president publicly pledged to withdraw all American troops from the Middle East immediately and deposit two billion dollars in various Cypriote and Dubai bank accounts. The terms had to be accepted within twenty-four hours. The document had been issued at 0700 hours on the eighteenth of June and was signed “The Fox-ISIS.”