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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 sh
ut 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.
