Jihad (42 page)

“Organics.”

“Mmmmmmmm.” Johnny Bib leaned down and picked a solitary piece of paper from the floor. “Why the boat?”

“Um, like, got me. It’s the only one on the drive.” Gallo turned to his computer and pulled up the file, displaying the contents in HTML, a common web page language, as well as in the machine language. “Looked odd, you know, the only one there, so I checked it for encryptions, odd fractals, the works.”

“Coast guard,” said Johnny Bib.

“Well, yeah, it’s a cutter or something.”

“Coast guard.”

Gallo stared at Bib, trying to puzzle out exactly what he was saying.

“Coast guard,” repeated Bib.

“You think it’s important?”

“It’s different! Different!” Johnny Bib practically screamed. “We like different! We
love
different!”

“I’ll see what I can figure out.”

RUBENS HAD JUST arrived at Crypto City after two hours of fitful sleep when Johnny Bib flew at him in the main hallway.

Literally flew at him, his hands spread wide.

“Sturgeon,”
said the head of the Desk Three research team.
“Sturgeon!
”

“Are you planning on catching some?” asked Rubens.

Johnny slid to a halt, arms still extended. “It’s a ship. A U.S. Coast Guard
cutter.”

“Actually, they call it a coastal patrol boat, officially,” said Robert Gallo, coming up behind Johnny Bib.

“I trust this is significant?”

“I think Kenan Conkel was interested in this ship,” said Gallo. “There was this picture on his friend’s hard drive, and I’ve recovered bits of queries about its capability and where it berths, coast guard routines I think. The queries were all right before he went to Mexico in September—and according to the time stamp, his roommate would have been in organic chemistry class.”

“It guards the Louisiana Offshore Oil Port,” said Johnny Bib. “The biggest port of entry for oil in the United States.”

“Come down to the Art Room with me,” said Rubens.

IT MADE MUCH more sense. He should have realized it from the start.

Rubens stared at the screen at the front of the Art Room. A picture of the Louisiana Offshore Oil Port, better known as LOOP, was displayed as one of the analysts quickly summarized the port’s assets and importance. All of Asad’s major targets had been aimed at the energy infrastructure—the Saudi oil fields, the major refinery in Germany. LOOP was their equivalent, much more important than a single chemical plant.

The Louisiana Offshore Oil Port had been built because many supertankers couldn’t get close enough to U.S. ports to unload. The process was fairly simple—a tanker would moor at an oversized floating gas pump called a single-point mooring base, referred to as an SPM. Raw petroleum was pumped through LOOP into a massive pipeline that brought it to Port Fourchon onshore. There it was stored in underground salt caverns before being shipped to refineries. Besides the mooring base and the onshore facilities, there were several vulnerable points—most notably the pumping and control platform, eighteen miles from shore.

LOOP had survived Hurricane Katrina when the worst part of the hurricane veered eastward; it was back in operation within a week. But drive a ship with several hundred or more tons of explosives into it, and the pumps, pipes, and mechanisms that had withstood the wind and waves would be shattered. Given the already fragile state of the Gulf Coast oil infrastructure, the result would be catastrophic—worse than the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. The U.S. would lose between a third and half of its oil for years, not months.

That
had
to be their target.

It was a guess—but one with evidence.

“Tell the coast guard to shut LOOP down,” Rubens said. “Order all ships out of the area. Evacuate the control platform. Keep working on that list of ships coming up from Mexico, validating them—expand it to include the area near LOOP.”

Telach frowned. “All we have is Johnny Bib’s hunch on this cutter.”

“That’s enough for me. Where’s Charlie Dean?”

CHAPTER 134

“CHARLIE, CAN YOU change course and get north to Port Fourchon?”

Marie Telach’s voice over the Deep Black communications system felt like a spike in Dean’s brain. He pulled his headset off of his right ear and reached into his pocket and pulled out his satphone, pretending to use it.

“This is Dean,” he said.

“We need you to go to Port Fourchon,” repeated Telach. “It’s south of New Orleans.”

“How far from New Orleans are we?” Dean asked the pilot.

“Twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen. Why?”

“There’s a deep-water port called LOOP out there, south of Port Fourchon,” Telach told Dean. “Johnny Bib has a theory Kenan may be heading there.”

“What’s a deep-water port?” Dean asked.

“You talking to me?” said the pilot.

“If you know the answer.”

“Port ships use them because they draw too much water to get into a regular harbor,” said the pilot. “Like LOOP, up near New Orleans, and that gas port they’re talking about building near Houston.”

“We need to get to LOOP if you know where it is,” Dean told the pilot.

“I don’t know if we have enough fuel.”

“Push it,” said Dean.

CHAPTER 135

WHEN THEY WERE twenty miles away, Razaq Khan told Kenan to go and prepare. Kenan went to the small shower in the captain’s compartment and cleansed himself, scrubbing deliberately and praying that he would be worthy of the task ahead. When he was done, he pulled on a fresh white shirt, leaving its tails untucked. It was as close as his mission allowed to the pilgrim’s shroud one wore to Mecca.

Kenan took over at the wheel while the helmsman went to change. They were moving steadily now; he could see a supertanker just leaving the LOOP moorings far off to starboard. In fifteen minutes, he would be challenged; he could answer in his sleep. Just in case the monitors aboard LOOP became suspicious, Kenan would push a button that would broadcast the distress call of one of the work ships that operated out of Port Fourchon. The coast guard patrol craft would investigate, leaving the way to LOOP free for the
Aztec Exact.

“I am ready,” said the helmsman, returning.

Kenan stepped to the radio. Khan took the key from his neck and placed it into the control panel.

“Do not leave the bridge for anything,” Khan told Kenan. “If I am gone, you are in charge. Complete our mission.”

Kenan, awed by the trust Khan showed in him, nodded.

“May God grant us our moment,” said Khan, going to check on the others.

CHAPTER 136

THERE
WERE SEVEN large ships within three miles of LOOP, and another dozen or so within an hour’s sailing time. And that didn’t count another dozen or so merchant ships near Port Fourchon, let alone the myriad of small vessels scattered offshore.

“All right. The coast guard is working from the west,” Dean told the pilot, relaying what Telach had told him. “There are two ships coming up from the southeast we want to check on.”

The pilot stared at him. Dean realized that he had forgotten to pretend to use his phone.

“I can’t explain the communications system. It’s classified, all right?”

“Yeah, not a problem. We have enough fuel to buzz one or two, but then we absolutely have to head inland to land.”

Dean spotted a helicopter on the LOOP platform.

“There’s a helipad on the LOOP platform,” said Dean. “You think you can refuel there?”

“If they let me, sure.”

“They’ll let you,” said Dean. “Don’t sweat it.”

CHAPTER 137

KENAN FELT HIS pulse rise as the radio call came in. He answered smoothly, exactly as he had practiced a million times.

The response he got was one he hadn’t expected.

“LOOP is being closed,” replied the voice.

“Closed? But—”

“You’ll have to talk to the coast guard,” replied the man on the other side of the radio. “We’ve been ordered to return to shore. You’re to stop where you are and await further instructions. Other arrangements will be made.”

They were roughly seven minutes from the tie-up point, and another five from the control rig where they were to detonate the explosives. Could they be stopped in twelve minutes?

No, thought Kenan. No. Allah had brought them close enough to succeed.

They were expecting a response. Should he continue to protest? What would a “normal” ship do?

They would comply—there really was no choice, was there?—then the captain would contact his shipping company for directions, or perhaps make other arrangements to offload his crude.

“Roger, we copy,” said Kenan. “Aztec Exact is changing course and will await further instructions.”

He debated whether to use the radio distress call that was planned as a distraction. Perhaps he should save it until later.

No. Best to follow the plan as closely as possible. He pressed the button, jamming the radio frequencies with the bogus calls of a pleasure boat sinking miles away.

Twelve minutes. All he had to do was press the ignition button as the ship drew close to the platform. The explosion would rupture the pipeline and destroy the platform in one swoop.

“Helicopter,” said the helmsman.

Kenan looked toward the control platform. A helicopter had just taken off.

“They’re evacuating,” Kenan told him. “Just hold our course.”

Then he heard the sound of a rotor nearby and realized the helmsman had been talking about different craft completely.

CHAPTER 138

DEAN COULD SEE two people on the bridge. He swept his binoculars around, trying to find someone else.

“I see only two people,” he told Rockman. “How many would it take it to run the ship?”

“More than that. Are they answering your hails?”

“They were just talking to LOOP control. There’s a distress call blocking the channels.”

“We’re working on that,” said Rockman. “We haven’t been able to locate the boat that’s sending it.”

There hadn’t been time to send a plane overhead to provide video from the scene. The Art Room was tracking vessels by compiling data from the coast guard cutter and navy ships well offshore, along with satellite images a few minutes old. But there was no way to easily pinpoint the locations of all the small vessels in the area.

“He’s not changing course or stopping,” said Dean, studying the
Aztec Exact.

“Tell them to leave the area.”

“Stand by.”

Dean leaned over to the radio to make sure he had the proper channel.

“Fuel’s getting low,” said the pilot. “We only have a couple of minutes.”

“Let’s talk to this ship and see what they’re up to. Then we can go over to the platform and gas up.”

Dean broadcast on the channel LOOP had used earlier, warning the
Aztec Exact
to stop. It didn’t acknowledge. He broadcast again, this time using the emergency bands; still no answer.

“The radio works, right?” he asked the pilot, picking up his binoculars.

“Yeah, it works,” said the pilot testily.

Something moved near the superstructure, something white.

A man with a white shirt.

“Somebody else on deck. Two people,” said Dean. He pulled the binoculars back up and focused—right on the barrel of an AK-47.

“Duck!” Dean yelled as bullets began cracking against the side of the Huey.

“DEAN IS UNDER fire!” said Rockman.

“Ms. Telach, please tell the coast guard the Aztec Exact is to be stopped,” said Rubens.

“They’re more than three miles away. They won’t get there in time,” said Rockman.

“Have them target it with their deck gun and sink it,” Rubens said.

“COAST GUARD’S POSITIONING to open fire,” the pilot told Dean. “They’re going to try to sink it before it gets to the platform—they’re too far away to cut them off in time.”

“Let’s get out of the way.”

“I gotta land on the platform,” said the pilot. “We’re too far from shore.”

He was already a few hundred yards from it.

“They’re wasting their time from that distance,” added the pilot.

“Why?” said Dean.

“Their deckgun is a twenty-five-millimeter Bushmaster. It can fire about three and three-quarter miles, but its effective range is less than half that.”

“You’re sure?”

“I help with target spotting, remember? That’s all I do for weeks on end.”

“Rockman, are there weapons on that platform?” Dean asked.

“Uh, I’m not sure. There’s one guy standing by to help you refuel. He has to come out with you.”

“Find out about the weapons,” said Dean. “Go!”

“DEAN WANTS To know if there are weapons on the platform,” Rockman told Rubens. “I think he’s going to try and shoot the people on the bridge of the tanker.”

Rubens rubbed his eyes. It was already clear that the coast guard patrol craft wasn’t going to be able to stop the tanker. Two marine Harriers from the Wasp were about five minutes away, also too far.

“If there are weapons, tell him where they are. Tell him to make sure he’s off that platform before the ship gets there.”

SMALL-ARMS LOCKERS HAD been posted around the platform. Aimed at assisting the crewmen in the case of a terrorist boarding, each waterproof locker had two M4 carbines with grenade launcher attachments, along with two dozen magazine boxes of ammunition and twelve grenades.

“There’s a locker back by the railing there,” yelled the crewman who met them on the helipad to refuel the chopper. “Guns and grenades.”

Dean ran to the locker, bolted to the side of the catwalk twenty yards from the helipad. He grabbed one of the M4 automatic rifles and a Beretta pistol, then stuffed four grenades into his pants pockets. Pulling his shirt out of his pants, he piled seven or eight magazines into it, using it as a crude basket to carry the ammo back to the helo.

“How close?” yelled the pilot, who’d opened the rear side door while waiting for Dean.