“Believe what you want Ms. Carrabolla,” the director said, bringing up the latest images from ISIS’s rampage in Mosul. It showed dozens of heads mounted on the fence posts of a bridge. He nodded to the image, telling her, “I think these gentleman would disagree with you if they could.”
“You simply don’t understand that part of the world,” she said. “The president understands these people; he knows what makes them tick. I advise you to watch and learn. The president has a firm handle on the situation; he’s not going to panic the way you are.”
“Panic?” the general echoed with contempt.
“Panic, general,” she asserted with a steadfast expression. “In another few hours the Iranian Uranium will be safely locked away in Abu Dhabi. There will be no funny business, your conspiracy theories will be discredited. In a few weeks, once the Israelis have satisfied their bloodlust by dropping bombs on civilians, things will quiet down.”
At the height of her gloating, there was a strident call from the operations officer. “General, you better come take a look at this! There’s a problem with the Atlas!”
Carrabolla looked up to the satellite feeds to see the Atlas swerving away from its tow ship, the aft end completely engulfed in thick black smoke. As they watched. The ship capsized and sank in a matter of seconds.
“What just happened?” Carrabolla demanded.
“The freighter just blew up Ma’am; it just blew up,” the officer monitoring the convoy reported. “I don’t know what else to say. The Iranians are broadcasting that the freighter struck a mine.”
“Struck a mine?” General Mertzl exclaimed. “They were in the middle of a convoy — under tow — how could they strike a mine?”
“It could, it could happen,” Carrabolla snapped defensively.
The director leaned over the console and brought up the CIA display, ordering the operators to, “Bring up the explosion. Give me a running analysis.”
The screen showed the freighter under tow, nothing out of the ordinary, except, as the analyst reported, “They were heading west to Abu Dhabi at five knots — not unusual for a tow — however, the crew was mustered out on deck.”
“They had nothing to do,” Carrabolla argued. “They were under tow.”
“Actually the crew is quite busy under tow,” the analyst responded. “There are strict maritime procedures for vessels under tow. The crew has a great deal of responsibility; mustering for the captain is not one of them.”
The feed continued and it became clear that the crew responded to whatever the captain was saying, raising their arms in celebration time after time.
“Allahu Akbar!” the director muttered.
“Now you’re grasping at straws,” Carrabolla retorted, albeit nervously.
A blinding flash blanked out the screen. The assembled staff looked on in surprise. It was the director who recovered first.
“A mine wouldn’t flash so brightly,” he muttered. “We’d see a geyser of water, not an explosion.”
“Unless it hit a fuel tank,” Carrabolla interjected.
“Fuel fumes explode, fuel burns,” Mertzl said gravely, shaking his head. “That looked like a magazine going up; only the freighter isn’t carrying ammunition, or rather it shouldn’t be.”
“Could the Uranium have reached critical mass?” Carrabolla speculated.
The military men looked at her with amusement and concern; disturbed that the advisor to the president on national security was so ignorant, doubly so that she’d voice that ignorance.
“Run it back to the point of ignition,” the director said calmly.
The image backed to a point where there was a small pinprick of flame at the stern of the vessel. It erupted through the smokestack and then engulfed the bridge.
“Stop the tape!” the director ordered. He turned to Carrabolla. “The explosion happened at the rear of the ship; in the engine room. When was the last time a mine caught up to a ship; even a ship under tow?”
“They scuttled their own damn ship,” General Mertzl said.
“Why, why would they do that?” the National Security Advisor demanded.
Again the director and the general looked at her with disdain, answering together, “To get rid of evidence! Now it will take weeks to prove they didn’t have the Uranium on board!”
“Look at that, look at the destroyer,” MacCloud noted, running the tape back. “They cast of the tow line just before the explosion. They didn’t want to be afoul of the freighter when she went down — even they knew! Damned sloppy, I’d have thought the Iranians would sacrifice their destroyer for appearances at least!”
Carrabolla stood in stunned silence, but the stares of the military men forced her to action. She took out her phone and called the president.
When President Oetari came on line he wasn’t even attempting to be diplomatic. “Carrabolla, I hired you to take care of international emergencies, not to bother me with them. What is it now?”
“Sir, the Iranian freighter with the Uranium on board has just blown up.” She glanced at the screen with the taped feed. Gann had the crew replay the sequence again. “We’re watching the film of it sink.”
“Did we do it?”
“No sir!”
“What are the Iranians saying?”
Carrabolla was startled by the question, and she stammered, “Immediately after the explosion the Iranians claimed the freighter ran into a mine; however, our preliminary examination of the video suggests,” she hesitated before continuing, taking a deep breath before she did so. “Mr. President, our examination of the video suggests sabotage possibly by the Iranians themselves.”
“That’s not what the Iranians say — they were there — why assume it’s something so farfetched?” the president countered.
“Sir, at this point I don’t think we can,” she hesitated again, and repeated herself, “I don’t think we can trust the Iranians. There’s too much going on. The stakes are far too high.”
“Yes they are Ms. Carrabolla, and I am not about to go rocking the international boat when so much is at stake,” the president replied angrily. “You want me to go and accuse the Iranians of duplicity at a time when the peace of the world is balanced on the edge of a sword — I will not do that!”
“What are your orders Mr. President?” she sighed.
“Begin with lending any and all assistance to the Iranians,” the president told her. “Then have our Ambassador to the United Nations consult with the members of the Security Council. We’ll see where that leads.”
“We’re going to wait on the United Nations?” she asked anxiously. The abandonment of so much authority caught Carrabolla by surprise — not because she hadn’t thought of it, dreamed of it before — but because hitherto, she’d not been so completely troubled by the prospect. Now, with three tons of Uranium missing, she was not so certain that leaving it to the irresolute halls of the United Nations was all that good an idea.
She opened her mouth to speak but the president cut her off. “There you go Carrabolla,” he said curtly. “I expected you to implement that. It’s not so hard. You have to be decisive! Write that down. Now let me get to my fund raiser without any more international emergencies. Problem solved.”
He hung up.
“Problem solved?” the general and the directors exclaimed at once.
“So it seems,” Carrabolla sighed.
The general watched Carrabolla turn and leave, seemingly too embarrassed to continue the discussion. “God help us!” he sighed. With a hard eye he turned back to the Gann, and said, “I’ve got the Key West shadowing that sub. We’ll know pretty soon if they rendezvous.”
“Good, my man on Soekarno’s freighter will keep an eye on the Iranians,” the director told him. “The Iranian military now controls it. How much you want to bet the freighter and the sub cross paths?”