The Afghan (36 page)

The
Mellon
’s weaponry is not to be trifled with. Lightest of her three systems is the six-barrel 20-mm Gatling gun which pumps out such a blizzard of ordnance that it is used as an antimissile weapon. In theory even an incoming rocket would be torn apart by flying through such a hail of bullets. But the Phalanx gun does not have to be used against missiles; it can tear almost anything apart but it needs to be fairly close.

She also carried two Bushmaster 25-mm cannon, not as rapid but heavier and enough to give a small tanker a completely spoiled day. And she has her deck-mounted Oto Melara 76-mm rapid-fire cannon. By the time the
Doña Maria
became a speck on the horizon all three systems were crewed and ready, and the men crouching over what so far they had only used in training would have been more than saintly if they did not harbour a sneaking lust to use them in real action.

With the Orion above them, filming everything in real time and passing the images to Tampa, the
Mellon
curved round the stern of the tanker and came abreast of her, throttling back to format just two hundred yards off the beam. Then the
Mellon
called on the
Doña Maria
with her loudhailer.

‘Unidentified tanker, this is United States Coast Guard vessel
Mellon
. Heave to. I say again, heave to. We are coming aboard.’

Powerful field glasses could pick up the figure at the helm holding the wheel, and two other figures flanking the man. There was no response. The tanker did not slow down. The message was repeated.

After the third message the captain gave the order for a single shell to be fired into the sea ahead of the tanker’s bow. As the water spout erupted over the bow, soaking the tarpaulins with which someone had vainly tried to hide the network of pipes and tubes that betray any tanker’s real purpose, those on the bridge of the
Doña Maria
must have got the message. Still she did not slow down.

Then two figures appeared from the door of the sterncastle, just behind the bridge. One had an M60 machine gun slung round his neck. It was a futile gesture and sealed the tanker’s fate. His North African features were clearly visible in the setting sun. He loosed off a short burst that went over the top of the
Mellon
, then took a bullet in the chest from one of the four M16 carbines being aimed at him from the deck of the
Mellon
.

That was the end of negotiations. As the Algerian’s body slumped backwards and the steel door through which he had stepped slammed shut, the captain of the
Mellon
asked for permission to sink the runaway. But permission was denied. The message from base was unequivocal.

‘Pull away from her. Make distance now and make it fast. She’s a floating bomb. Resume station a mile from the tanker.’

Regretfully the
Mellon
turned away, powered up to maximum speed and left the tanker alone to her fate. The two F-16 Falcons were already airborne and three minutes distant.

There is a squadron at Pensacola Air Force Base in the Florida panhandle that maintains a five-minute-to-scramble standby readiness round the clock. Its primary use is against drug smugglers, airborne and sometimes seaborne, trying to slip into Florida and neighbouring states with (mainly) cocaine.

They came out of the sunset in a clear darkling sky, locked on to the tanker west of Bimini and armed their Maverick missiles. Each pilot’s visual display showed him the smart missiles’ lock on the target and the death of the tanker was very mechanical, very precise, very devoid of emotion.

There was a clipped command from the element leader and both Mavericks left their racks beneath the fighters and followed their noses. Seconds later two warheads involving 135 kilograms of unpleasantness hit the tanker.

Even though her cargo was not air-mixed for maximum power the detonations of the Mavericks deep inside the petrol jelly were enough.

From a mile away the crew of the
Mellon
watched her torch and were duly impressed. They felt the heat wash over their faces and smelled the stench of concentrated gasoline on fire. It was quick. There was nothing left to smoulder on the surface. The forward and stern ends of the tanker went down as two separate pieces of molten junk. The last of her heavier fuel oil flickered for five minutes, then the sea claimed it all.

Just as Ali Aziz al-Khattab had intended.

Within an hour the President of the USA was interrupted at a state banquet with a brief whispered message. He nodded, demanded a full verbal report at eight the next morning in the Oval Office, and returned to his soup.

At five minutes before eight the Director of the CIA with Marek Gumienny at his side were shown into the Oval Office. Gumienny had been in that room twice before and it still impressed the hell out of him. The President and the other five of the six principals were there.

The formalities were brief. Marek Gumienny was bidden to report on the progress and termination of a lengthy exercise in counter-terrorism known as Crowbar.

He kept it short, aware that the man sitting under the round window giving on to the Rose Garden, with its six-inch bullet-proof glass, loathed long explanations. The rule of thumb was always ‘fifteen minutes and then shut up’. Marek Gumienny telescoped the complexities of Crowbar into twelve.

There was silence when he stopped.

‘So the tip from the Brits turned out to be right?’ said the Vice-President.

‘Yes, sir. The agent they slipped inside Al-Qaeda, a very brave officer whom I had the privilege of meeting last fall, must be presumed dead. If not he would have shown sign of life by now. But he got the message out. The terror weapon was indeed a ship.’

‘I had no idea cargoes that dangerous were being carried around the world on a daily basis,’ marvelled the Secretary of State in the ensuing silence.

‘Nor I,’ said the President. ‘Now, regarding the G8 Conference, what is your advice to me?’

The Secretary of Defense glanced at the Director of National Intelligence and nodded. They had clearly prepared their go-ahead.

‘Mr President, we have every reason to believe the terrorist threat to this country, notably to the city of Miami, was destroyed last night. The peril is over. Regarding the G8, during the entire conference you will be under the protection of the US Navy, and the Navy has pledged its word that no harm will come to you. Our advice therefore is that you go ahead to your G8 with an easy mind!’

‘Why then, that’s what I shall surely do,’ said the President of the USA.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

David Gundlach reckoned he had the best job in the world. Second-best, anyway. To have that fourth gold ring on the sleeve or epaulette and be the captain of the vessel would be even better, but he happily settled for First Officer.

On an April evening he stood at the starboard wing of the huge bridge and looked down at the swarming humanity on the dock of the new Brooklyn Terminal two hundred feet below him. The borough of Brooklyn was not above him; at the height of a twenty-three-storey building, he was looking down on most of it.

Pier Twelve on Buttermilk Channel, which was being inaugurated that very evening, is not a small dock but this liner took up all of it. At 1,132 feet long, 135 feet in the beam and drawing 39 feet so that the whole channel had had to be deepened for her, she was the biggest passenger liner afloat by a big margin. The more First Officer Gundlach, on his first crossing since his promotion, looked at her, the more magnificent she seemed.

Far below and away in the direction of the streets beyond the terminal buildings he could make out the banners of the frustrated and angry demonstrators. New York’s police had with great effectiveness simply cordoned off the entire terminal. Harbour Police boats skimmed and swerved round the terminal at sea level to ensure that no protesters in boats could come near.

Even if they had been able to approach at sea level it would have done them no good. The steel hull of the liner simply towered above the waterline, its lowest ports more than fifty feet up. So those boarding that evening could do so in complete privacy.

Not that they were of interest to the protesters. So far the liner was simply taking on board the lowly ones: stenographers, secretaries, junior diplomats, special advisers and all the human ants without whom the great and good of the world could apparently not discuss hunger, poverty, security, trade barriers, defence and alliances.

As the notion of security crossed his mind, David Gundlach frowned. He and his fellow officers had spent the day escorting scores of American Secret Servicemen over every inch of the ship. They all looked the same; they all scowled in concentration; they all jabbered into their sleeves where the mikes were hidden and they all got their answers in earpieces without which they felt naked. Gundlach finally concluded they were professionally paranoid – and they found nothing amiss.

The backgrounds of the 1,200 crew had been vetted and checked and not a shred of evidence had been found against any of them. The Grand Duplex Apartment set aside for the US President and First Lady was already sealed and guarded by the Secret Service, having been given an inch-by-inch search. Only having seen it for the first time did David Gundlach realize the enveloping cocoon that must surround this President at all times.

He checked his watch. Two hours to completion of boarding of the three thousand passengers before the eight heads of state or government were due to arrive. Like the diplomats in London he was admiring of the simplicity of chartering the biggest and most luxurious liner in the world to host the biggest and most prestigious conference in the world; and to do so during a five-day crossing of the Atlantic from New York to Southampton.

The ruse confounded all the forces that habitually sought to bring chaos to the G8 Conference every year. Better than a mountain, better than an island, with accommodation for 4,200 souls, the
Queen Mary 2
was untouchable.

Gundlach would stand beside his captain as the Typhoon hooters sounded their deep bass ‘A’ note to bid farewell to New York. He would give the required power settings from her four Mermaid pod motors and the captain, using only a tiny joystick on the control console, would ease her out into the East River and turn her towards the roads and the waiting Atlantic. So delicate were her controls and so versatile her two aft pods that swivel through 360 degrees that she needed no tugs to bring her out of the terminal.

Far to the east the
Countess of Richmond
was passing the Canary Islands, away to her starboard. The holiday islands for so many Europeans seeking to leave the snow and sleet of their winter homes to find December sunshine off the African coast were out of view. But the tip of Mount Teide could be seen on the horizon with field glasses.

She had two days in hand before her rendezvous with history. The Indonesian navigator had instructed his compatriot in the engine room to cut power to ‘slow ahead’ and she was moving at a walking pace through the gentle swell of an April evening.

The peak of Mount Tiede dropped out of sight and the helmsman eased her a few more degrees to port where, 1,600 miles away, lay the American coast. From high in space she was spotted yet again; and again, when consulted, the computers read her transponder, checked the records, noted her harmless position so far out at sea and repeated her clearance: ‘Legitimate trader, no danger.’

The first government party to arrive was the Prime Minister of Japan and his entourage. As agreed they had flown into Kennedy direct from Tokyo. Staying airside out of sight and sound of the demonstrators, the party had transferred to the passenger cabins of a small fleet of helicopters which lifted them straight out of Jamaica Bay and brought them to Brooklyn.

The landing zone was inside the perimeter of the great halls and sheds which made up the new terminal. From the Japanese passengers’ point of view, the protesters beyond the barriers, mouthing silently whatever point it was they wished to make, simply dropped out of sight. As the rotor blades slowed to a gentle twirl, the delegation was greeted by ship’s officers and conducted along the covered tunnel to the entrance in the side of the hull; and from thence to one of the Royal Suites.

The helicopters left for Kennedy to collect the Canadians who had just arrived.

David Gundlach remained on the bridge, fifty yards from side to side with huge panoramic windows looking forward to the sea. Even though the bridge was two hundred feet in the air, the wipers in front of each window revealed that when the bow of the
Queen Mary 2
hit the sixty-foot Atlantic waves of midwinter, spray would still drench the bridge.

But this crossing, so ran the forecasts, would be gentle, with a slow swell and light winds. The liner would be taking the southern Great Circle route, always more popular with guests for its milder weather and sea. This would bring her in an arc sweeping across the Atlantic at its shortest point and, at its southernmost, just north of the Azores.

The Russians, French, Germans and Italians succeeded each other in smooth sequence and dusk fell as the British, owners of the
Queen Mary 2
, used the last flights of the helicopter shuttle.

The US President, who would be hosting the inaugural dinner just after eight p.m., came in his customary dark blue White House helicopter on the dot of six. A marine band on the quay struck up ‘Hail to the Chief’ as he strode into the hull and the steel doors closed to shut away the outside world. At six-thirty the last mooring ropes were cast off and the
Queen Mary
, dressed overall and lit like a floating city, eased out into the East River.

Those on smaller vessels in the river and the outer roads watched her go and waved. High above them, behind toughened plate glass, the state and government heads of the eight richest nations in the world waved back. The brilliantly illuminated Statue of Liberty slid by, the islands dropped away and the
Queen Mary
sedately increased her power.