When it was gone the captain ordered the replacement containers floated to the center of the hold and then he closed the doors. The hydraulic motors whined and the gears turned. With a crunch and groan they closed. Three containers sat in the hold just like before.
Turning back to the sea, the freighter captain waited until the periscope of the sub popped up out of the water a hundred meters off the port bow. That part of the mission done, the captain turned to cleaning up the ship.
In the White House situation room the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Marine General Mertzl, was staring at the satellite feed with a scowl on his all too square face. He muttered loud enough for the entire table to hear it, “They’re up to something!”
National Security Advisor Carrabolla was twenty years the general’s junior with a curly mop of blonde hair and a choir girl demeanor. She sighed, “You always think the worst of people general.”
“You think when we have three plus tons of near weapon grade Uranium at risk this is just another political campaign?” he shot back, reminding Carrabolla the reason she got the job had nothing to do with her foreign policy experience. “This stuff is enough for a bunch of atomic bombs or a whole lot of trouble if they’re made into dirty bombs. This is real world stuff!”
“That’s why we have our Navy ships shadowing the Iranians,” she reminded him. “They’re not going to pull anything while our ships are there.”
“They already are,” he told her. “They’re doing it right in front of us. Why do you think the freighter has stopped and laid a smoke screen over its location? It’s night. Even our low light satellites won’t pick up any detail now and our Infra-Red satellite cameras are being blinded by the flares they’re sending up.”
“Maybe the ship is in distress; did you think of that?” she retorted. “We are monitoring their radio frequencies. The Iranian warships are moving in to assist.”
“And you trust these bastards?” he shot back, incredulous. Before she could answer, he told her, “These people love your candy ass view of the world. That means they can do whatever they want. The bottom line is this: in my professional opinion forged over the last forty years of service to this country, I say they’re up to something and the president should be informed; he should be here monitoring this in the situation room.”
“He’s on a fund raiser in Texas,” she told him emphatically.
“Since when has greasing the palms of fat cats taken precedence over an international crisis?” he asked testily.
“The wheels of government turn whatever other countries do general,” she retorted.
He laughed, and asked, “So where in the Constitution does it say that fund raising takes precedence over — anything?”
“Would you say that if the president was here general?” she challenged him.
“I wouldn’t have to say it; he’d be where he was supposed to be!” the general shot back.
Carrabolla looked indecisive. She wasn’t happy; but the general had a point. “The president has a responsibility,” she started, but the general cut her off.
“He has a responsibility to do the job he was elected to do! He is in his second term. There is no need for him to campaign endlessly.”
“If he loses the mid-terms, if he loses the Senate he can’t do his job,” she argued.
“So the government just stops, is that what you’re telling me, Ms. Carrabolla?” he chided, grimacing in a truly frighteningly way. When she hesitated in responding, he continued his point. “Listen to me: the Iranians are bald face lying to the world; which isn’t so unusual excepting this time it involves three tons of enriched Uranium. We know the Iranians have met with Al Qaeda; we know the Iranians have met with ISIS; do you really want to see those bastards get their hands on that much Uranium?”
“I don’t see the connection general,” she replied automatically, immediately realizing she’d said the wrong thing.
“You don’t realize the connection between three terrorist organizations — all rivals — meeting with each other and then lo and behold three tons of Uranium goes missing?”
“There is no Uranium missing,” she replied patiently. “We haven’t heard anything from the Iranians that would leave us to believe anything nefarious is going on.”
“You blindly trust them?” he replied emphatically. “Have you ever heard of Taqiyya?”
“I’m unfamiliar with the term,” she lied.
The general laughed bitterly, “Well it’s the use of falsehood to further ones purposes for the sake of Islam; rather like the political lies told to sell healthcare or target your political foes using the IRS or the attack on Benghazi.”
“All right general you’ve made your point,” Carrabolla cut him off. “At this point I don’t see anything that would give us any indication of alarm; this is a glitch, these things happen. This isn’t the first ship with engine trouble.”
“Well then you won’t mind if I send in some ships to lend assistance,” General Mertzl smiled, turning to Admiral Sampson. “Bob, who do you want to send in to lend a hand to our poor unfortunate Iranians?”
“I have four destroyers and a couple of guided missile cruisers that can be at the freighter in fifteen minutes,” he replied calmly. “The Nimitz is ready to put two flights of super-hornets armed with harpoons overhead in five; with full fighter CAP in case any ‘unfriendlies’ come our way. Just give me the word Frank.”
“Testosterone driven Neanderthals!” Carrabolla cursed under her breath.
“What was that Ms. Carrabolla?”
“I said you are exceeding your authority,” she replied coldly.
“Ms. Carrabolla only one man in this country has the power to countermand my orders — one man — and he’s on the way to a fund raiser,” the general answered tersely. “I have a duty to safeguard this operation. Those are my orders. I will accomplish them as I see fit.”
“I think you are unnecessarily provoking the Iranians,” Carrabolla argued. “As the head of the NSA I object strenuously to this course of action!”
“Ms. Carrabolla, you and your NSA ideologues don’t know shit from shinola,” he told her. “You’re all political hacks. If you listened to your NSA professionals they’d tell you you’re full of crap!”
“You leave me no choice but to call the president!” she threatened.
General Mertzl raised his hands in supplication to a greater power. “Hallelujah! That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do for the last fifteen minutes!”
“That’s what this is all about?”
“Good God in heaven do you have any clue about what’s going on?” he exclaimed. Burying his head in his hands the general took a deep breath before looking back up at her. “I really want to know how you ideologues think; what the Hell goes on in your brains?”
Carrabolla got the distinct impression he’d like to saw the top of her skull off with the knife he undoubtedly carried in his boots and look in to see what festering disease was rotting her brain — all while she was awake.
Angry, she retorted, “The days of bullying other nations is past general. We’re just one of hundreds of nations on this planet; the sooner you realize we’re nothing special the longer your career will last. The days of the last superpower are over.”
The general glowered at her. The situation room was clearly divided between the military, the CIA and the FBI and the other agencies, President Oetari’s ideologues. It was a simmering conflict of distrust, with one side firmly believing the political zealots were bordering on treason and then other side convinced that evolution had passed the warmongers by.