Captain Mars shook his head. “I have half a mind to sink that freighter now. With everything that we’ve seen already who knows how long that stuff will remain on that ship!”
As far as the fourth ship in the game was concerned, the Atlas was under tow and as the sun came up the eyes of every intelligence agency and news agency were upon her.
In the situation room, all eyes were glued to the satellite feeds. During the night the freighter was hooked up to a destroyer and put under tow. As it moved out from under the smokescreen it appeared that the cargo was intact. When dawn finally broke over the Straits of Hormuz it became clear that there were three containers in the hold of the freighter. The Atlas would dock in Abu Dhabi in five hours.
“You see general, all of your hand wringing was for nothing,” National Security Advisor Carrabolla gloated. “We put three containers on that freighter and there are still three containers. Where’s your national emergency now? Would you like me to get the president on the phone?”
General Mertzl was conferring with Director Gann, nodding gravely. He looked up at Carrabolla, and said, “There are three containers there all right but are they the same ones?”
“What are you talking about now?” she asked, sipping her latte. It was getting late and she wanted to be home.
The director nodded to an aide. After a few keystrokes two images appeared on the big screen. They were both satellite pictures of the Iranian freighter. The containers were circled. It was obvious that they had moved. “Our analysts at the CIA have concluded that the cargo containers were moved. This is patently impossible for any simple engine malfunction. Each one of those containers weighs over two tons; that includes the lead shielding.”
“If it’s impossible then what’s your point?”
“My point is that something happened,” the director said simply. “I have my suspicions, and General Mertzl’s midget submarine must be checked out. At the very least we need to repeat the entire inspection process for each container when they arrive at Abu Dhabi.”
“What are your suspicions?” Carrabolla asked doubtfully.
The director shrugged, and said, “The Iranians chose this ship because of its hollow hull; it was designed to be loaded with stones and drop them through the bottom of the ship.”
“You think the Iranians dumped their nuclear material on the sea floor?” she said dubiously.
“Not on the sea floor Ms. Carrabolla, on the midget submarine.”
“For what purpose?”
“We’re working on that,” he said.
“Well you keep it up,” she laughed. “As I told the president, this isn’t a James Bond movie. The simple answer is almost always the best.” She pointed at the screen. “What I see is three containers in the before photo and three containers in the after photo. That tells me that those are the same three containers we started with. I don’t need the wild imagination of some submariner whose been cooped up in his boat for months to tell me different.”
“And the inspection by the UN at Abu Dhabi?” the director asked calmly. “The president agreed to it; wouldn’t it simply confirm to the world what you already know? Here’s your chance to shut us up Ms. Carrabolla.”
“The president said we would do that so we will,” she said, nodding. “The president will enjoy roasting your science fiction theories. Maybe you’ll finally learn your lesson. The world’s not full of bad people gentlemen; it’s just full of people — period.”
“Thank you Ms. Carrabolla,” the director said.
As the tow began, Captain Mustafa summoned his first officer to the bridge. “Now that we are out of our smokescreen we will see if we have indeed fooled the Americans.”
“What do you mean captain?”
Mustafa pointed upward. “They will be studying us with their satellites. If they have any doubts as to what has happened we will hear a response. If the ruse worked then we should dock in Abu Dhabi by afternoon.”
An hour later the first mate of the freighter hurried down to the deck, informing the captain of an important message. “You are wanted on the bridge immediately. Colonel Nikahd is on the radio. He says it is urgent.”
The captain waved for the first officer to follow him. As they entered the confines of the bridge he picked up the hand mike, snapping to attention. “Captain Mustafa here sir!”
“Captain, we have a development in the operation,” the voice crackled over the radio. “The American’s have grown suspicious and are requesting that the United Nations inspectors meet you in Abu Dhabi. There they will re-inspect the cargo and ensure that these delays incurred because of the malfunctions on your vessel have not affected the cargo. Do you understand?”
“I do sir,” the captain replied gravely. “We will make preparations.”
“I do not need to ask if you and your men are prepared for this final phase of your operation,” Nikahd said soberly. “This is an important moment in the inevitable ascension of our faith and our people. I expect all will be carried out properly.”
“We will not disappoint you sir!”
“Allah be with you,” Nikahd finished.
“Allahu Akbar!” Captain Mustafa finished.
The first officer looked at Mustafa, mystified. “The inspectors cannot fail to discover that the Uranium is gone,” he said. “These containers are filled with medical waste; they will only pass a cursory inspection.”
“There will be no inspection,” Mustafa informed his officer. “Muster the crew on deck. Colonel Nikahd has given us an opportunity for paradise! This voyage will end the only way it could have.”
“How is that?” the first officer said, still not understanding.
“With martyrdom!”
In the situation room, several hours passed before Carrabolla approached the general and the directors again. She smiled thinly, and said, “The president wasn’t happy but he was willing to call his friend the President of Turkey — they share parenting tips.”
“The President of Turkey is a big supporter of Hamas,” the director said.
“He’s no friend of Israel, that’s for sure,” General Mertzl added.
“The President of Turkey takes a very progressive view of the world,” Carrabolla told them. “He’s a staunch NATO ally.”
“In what way?” General Mertzl asked. “How much help did we get from Turkey in Libya, Iraq, Syria — you name it? They’ve been radicalized, and the president is a sympathizer of terrorists not the West.”
“I do hope you mean the President of Turkey, general,” Carrabolla said. When the general shot a disdainful expression, she added, “Either way your assertion is errant. There’s no greater friend of the United States, and he strongly supports Israel’s right to exist.”
“That’s not what he says,” the director reminded her. “We have extensive incidents on tape of him calling for the destruction of Israel, the Jews and the support of jihad and a worldwide caliphate. You know that, or you should; that’s part of your job isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen those reports,” she sneered. Shaking her curly blonde head. “In my opinion you are taking political rhetoric as policy. There’s a difference. We do that during our own campaigns all the time.”
The general laughed, telling Carrabolla, “Oh yes, the Democrats and Republicans are routinely talking about driving each other into the sea and about how nice and peaceful the people in Hamas, Hezbollah and Al Qaeda are to their neighbors.”
“Your sarcasm is noted general,” Carrabolla replied coldly. “It’s right there with bigotry. Some people consider these groups freedom fighters.”
“Like who?” he demanded.