Joint Task Force #2: America (27 page)

“Take my time?”

He removed his hand and looked down at the piers before glancing up at the clouds. “Another overcast day. You know, life can be like that if we make the wrong decision—a series of overcast days.” He turned and walked by Tucker. “Got to go down and tell the watch to put on some fresh coffee. Five-thirty is when I have my first cup before my oatmeal at six followed by man’s greatest friend to the prostate—aspirin.” He turned as he reached the staircase leading down. “Commander, go get some sleep, and remember, if and when you ever get married, always use those most important words to a wife’s ear.”

“You mean, ‘I love you?’ ” Tucker asked with a chuckle.

“No, I mean, ‘yes, dear.’ ‘I love you’ is important, and they’ll expect it, but ‘yes, dear’ can make married life a lot more peaceful.” With that, the old mustang disappeared down the stairs.

More calls from merchant vessels trying to enter and leave Hampton Roads grew on the bridge-to-bridge radio as the maritime day emerged into rough weather in historic Tidewater, Virginia.

“WHAT IS THIS?” SCREAMED TAMURSHEKI.

He drew back and slapped Ibrahim again. The blow caused the doctor to take a couple of steps back. Qasim, the huge Shiite from Iraq, stuck his foot out, tripping Ibrahim and causing the doctor to fall onto the deck of the wardroom.

Tamursheki reached down and grabbed the collars of Ibrahim’s smock.

“Look around your little hospital here,” he said, his voice angry and low. “Why are my men laying about the place, moaning; and what are these things popping up on their bodies? And, on my body?” He threw the smaller
man across the compartment. Ibrahim hit against one of the two medical tables, sending medical instruments flying off the table and onto the floor. The sound of the metal instruments bouncing off the metal decks punctuated Ibrahim’s cry of pain. The doctor raised his hand, blood welling from a sliced palm where a scalpel had cut him.

“Oh, don’t worry about that little nick,
Doctor Ibrahim
. You should worry about the one along your neck if you don’t get these men well before we reach our target today,” Tamursheki threatened, his voice trembling.

Tamursheki jerked Ibrahim up, holding him by the collars of the smock. He shoved the doctor toward Qasim, who grabbed the doctor by the arms, holding them trapped against Ibrahim’s body. The gigantic arms of the Jihadist giant held Ibrahim as if the doctor was trapped in an iron vise.

“Look at this!” Tamursheki said, pointing to his face. Small pustules, some barely visible and some the size of small peas. A couple of spots above Tamursheki’s right eye were the size of the man’s thumbnail. “And I feel a fever aching to bring me down.” He looked behind him and flopped down in a nearby chair, running his hand lightly over his head. “Already half my men are here, laying in their own shit and urine, unable to move. You promised Abu Alhaul to keep us healthy so we could take our cargo to the enemy. Instead, everyone is sick.” He pointed at Qasim. “With the exception of Qasim. I should kill you like I did the Americans.” He placed his finger at his neck and drew it slowly across from left to right. “Slice you through the neck slowly so you feel the blade sink into your throat and clog your airways. Therefore, you can experience the thrill of seeing your life flow from your neck across your chest and onto the floor. You—” He stopped, his head dropping and his breath coming in quick draughts.

“What would you have me do, Said Tamursheki?” Ibrahim asked, running his tongue across bleeding lips, his mouth achingly dry. He tried to shake himself free of the
strong hands holding him. “Let me go!” The hands tightened on his arms.

“What is this?” Tamursheki demanded. He pointed at Dr. Ibrahim. “You were suppose to keep us healthy. The shots you gave were suppose to protect us from what we carry on the back of the ship, but instead you have betrayed us—”

“I have not betrayed you! You knew what the shots were. If anyone betrayed you, it was Abu Alhaul!” Ibrahim looked up, narrowing his eyes at Qasim, whose grip loosened. “Let me go!” The grip returned.

Tamursheki jerked his knife out from where he had it shoved into his belt. “You dare to talk about Allah’s right arm. Abu Alhaul takes his guidance from Allah and is above worldly things.”

“Then you’re as dumb as you look, Tamursheki.”

Tamursheki placed the edge of the knife along the left side of Ibrahim’s neck. Ibrahim forced his head backward until it touched Qasim’s chest. His eyes wide as he tried to look down at the knife.

“Oh, Qasim, my apologies, my friend, but the blood of this infidel is going to soil your new clothes.”

“I look forward to bathing in his blood.”

Ibrahim whimpered. Tamursheki knew that the true weapon was him and the other martyrs. There was no nuclear weapon within the large van. At least, he didn’t think there was. Maybe if Abu Alhaul had betrayed his warriors, the terrorist leader had also betrayed Ibrahim and Alrajool. “Don’t,” he begged. “Let me explain. Abu Alhaul had bigger plans for you and your men, Tamursheki. So big that he only wanted you to know it once we reached our destination.”

The pressure of the knife eased slightly. Tamursheki laughed. “I know. I know those shots you gave us had nothing to do with being sick at sea. I also know that the disease you injected into us wasn’t suppose to erupt now! It was meant for the infidels.”

Ibrahim shook his arms again, trying to free himself. Tamursheki pulled the knife away from Ibrahim’s neck,
looked up at Qasim, and nodded. The giant released him. Ibrahim rubbed his arms as he walked away from the two men.

“So talk, Doctor. Maybe you know something I don’t. Tell me what this plan is that you would know and the loyal followers of Abu Alhaul would not.”

Ibrahim positioned himself at the end of one of the tables on which one of the terrorists lay moaning. He glanced down at the man, reached out, and patted him slightly on the shoulders.

“Speak!”

Ibrahim nodded. “We’re nearly at our destination. There are things that you’re going to need to do even though I know that you are sick—”

“I am sick because of you.”

“Oh, yes. That is very true,” Ibrahim said, his voice failing to betray the amusement he found in the statement. “You’re sick because Abu Alhaul wanted you sick. He wanted you to leave the ship and go throughout America, spreading the germs that I have given you.”

Tamursheki pointed to the men lying around the medical compartment. “Then, I was right. But, now I can’t do this mission that Abu Alhaul intended. Look at them, they are dying, and they’re dying on board the ship instead of in the middle of America.”

Ibrahim moved slightly, easing around the edge of the table until it separated him from Tamursheki and Qasim and put the door leading out of the compartment about twenty feet behind him.

“Abu Alhaul knew the Americans would fixate on the black van tied to the stern of the ship. While they focused on the black van, thinking it a weapon, my job was to infect each of you with smallpox. It was his planning that determined how and where within this large country each of you would travel.”

The hand holding the knife lay alongside Tamursheki’s right leg. “If that was so, Ibrahim, then you have torn asunder his plan because we are already sick.”

“Yes, it seems that the smallpox virus was more
virulent than I expected.” He pointed to Qasim. “He seems to be the only one unaffected. That’s probably because of his size and weight. If he was as small in body as you, Tamursheki, Qasim would already be among the others suffering here.”

“We will still do what we must. We have the papers to sail into the harbor where we are to be met at the pier by those who would remove the van.” Tamursheki reached in his pocket. “And I have the key to activate the weapon while it is still on the ship. We would become martyrs of Islam.”

Ibrahim leaned forward, putting both hands on the table. He glanced for a moment at the man laying on it, looking at his face, a mass of pustules covering every square inch of exposed skin. The eyes shut and mouth pulsing like a fish gasping for water. Unseen, but deep within the man’s lungs, the same sores were growing, collapsing the vital fibers that forced oxygen into the blood. With a clinical thought, Ibrahim knew the man would die within the next few hours, if he lived that long.

He looked up at Tamursheki. “You really believe that, don’t you? You really believe that you”—Ibrahim waved his hand at the others in the compartment—“and those who follow you are more than pawns in a gigantic game of revenge by Abu Alhaul? Get real! You’re just dumb wanna-be warriors suckered to do his bidding. At least I know what my chances are, and if by a slim chance I do survive this mission, I know what my rewards are.” He pushed himself off the table as he spoke, inching nearer the door.

“There is no one who is going to meet you. The van will sail with the ship, unless Abu Alhaul has surprised me and planted explosives in it. Then the ship will sink and the real weapons aboard this ship—
you
—will disappear into America.” He jabbed his finger at Tamursheki. “You are the weapon. You and everyone around here. The others wandering around the ship, guarding and feeding the prisoners, trying to keep dry from the storm around us, or even back on the stern worshipping the black kabala
strapped down on the deck, waiting for some revelation that will never come.”

Tamursheki jerked the AK-47 off a nearby counter, flipped the safety off, and aimed it at Ibrahim. “You lie! Abu Alhaul told me himself that we would be heroes. If Allah sees fit we should live, we will be future leaders of the conquest of Africa. You lie!” He brought the weapon up and aimed it at Ibrahim.

Ibrahim licked his lips. His mouth was dry. The man was mad enough to kill him and any of the others in the compartment the bullets happened to hit. He held his hand up. “Wait! Killing me will not stop what is happening. I’m your only hope.” His voice trembled. He needed to learn when to shut up.

Tamursheki looked up, his eyes glistened. He lowered the automatic rifle so it pointed directly at Ibrahim. “What can you do?”

Ibrahim walked briskly to the refrigerator and opened the door. He pulled out a large flat metal tray that took up most of the second shelf. Numerous small glass vials filled most of the holes in the tray. They rattled against the sides as Ibrahim moved the tray from the shelf to a nearby counter. “See these,” he said. “If I give you a shot of this, it will slow down the disease and give you time to do your mission,” he lied, running his hands over the vials of the smallpox germ. If anything it would further infect those already infected.

Tamursheki raised the AK-47. “I want it slowed, Doctor. Or I want it stopped. If you can’t slow it, then stop it. Stop it until we are at our various destinations where we can reinfect ourselves.”

Ibrahim met Tamursheki’s hard brown eyes directly and, without breaking contact, lied. “Then, I would have to give you two of them.”

He flew backward across the compartment, pulling the tray full of the smallpox virus off the counter. Ibrahim heard the sound of the gun firing before he bounced off the medical table behind him. Pain—unbearable pain—swept over his body. Red rivulets flowed from his chest.
Between his legs lay something that looked like a human intestine, and his last thought as he died was the question as to whose it was.

Tamursheki looked at Qasim. “Why did you kill him?” he screamed at the giant. “He could have stopped this illness until—”

Qasim shrugged. “We must go forward. We can’t stop what has happened, my leader. This man is a heretic, and to trust a heretic is to endanger our mission. I killed him for our souls.”

THE DOOR TO THE COMPARTMENT OPENED. A SINGLE CAPTOR
stuck his head in the door, and once assured the three Americans were in their usual place with their hands tied behind their backs, he stepped inside. Like always, the large black man was squatting on his haunches and the thin white man was braced against the forward bulkhead opposite the woman. He nodded to someone out of sight and stepped over the transom into the gray shadows of the makeshift prison.

In a loud voice, he said something in Arabic. Early and the others had no idea what the man said, but they recognized that it was the same words each time he brought their bowls of food and water. The way the man’s nose wrinkled in disgust told them that whatever he said wasn’t something nice.

Usually, he backed out of the room, sealed the hatch, and watched through the small glass porthole. If they moved too soon to eat or drink, more faces would join their keeper. Even though they couldn’t hear what was said, they knew those watching were ridiculing, enjoying the spectacle of Americans shoving their faces into bowls for food and water. The three ignored the insects crawling in the food and swimming in the water. Early figured the terrorists spent more time hunting for the cockroaches they threw into the bowls than they did preparing it. She hated to think what else these men could have done to the mixture, because when she did, it made her want to vomit.

This time, a second man entered the compartment. He seemed to stagger over the raised transom at the foot of the hatch. He was carrying an AK-47. An involuntary shiver raced down Early’s backbone. This wasn’t the first time their captors had entered with weapons, but it was the first time that only one entered. Usually there were two or three.

The man in front squatted as he sat the bowls down, staring directly at Early. Kelly farted. A long, loud one, drawing the attention of both men. The Senior Chief was a blur. In one motion, he was erect and moving toward the armed man. The man near the bowls jumped up as the Senior Chief moved past him and hit Leary on the side, diverting him slightly.

Kelly leaped on the man with the AK-47, hitting him on the chin with his fist. The man collapsed on the deck. Kelly caught the gun before it hit the deck. Senior Chief Leary brought the back of his fist down on the first man’s neck. A sharp crack filled the compartment, then it became silent.

The three of them looked at each other. Kelly and Leary smiled. Early forced herself up. “Don’t laugh,” she said. She smiled slightly, and the pain of her lips spreading stopped her. “We’re not out of here yet.”