Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (57 page)

PREPARATION FOR THE DAY OF RECKONING

May 4, 0200
- Near Tripoli, Libya

UNDER MOONLIGHT, THE black clad soldiers moved like shadows across the white sand beaches of Libya. This special unit of
Allah’s Jihad
had been training together for over nine months in anticipation of the day they would become heroes of the Muslim world. They had trained individually to fight to the death in honor of Allah since they could hold a knife or throw a stone.

“Run Fahmi,” Tijani Hewidi yelled, waiving his arm to his old companion. “Catch up with the rest!”

Fahmi Amin staggered, tired legs dragging, chasing the group of fifty-three armed terrorists wearing black dungarees and watch caps. Their AK-47s held at port arms in front of them, they stabbed the sand with chopping steps, raising their knees high as they raced to the edge of the water. Black and green painted faces, streaked from perspiration, showed the strain of a four-hour workout.

Fahmi fell in the moist, almost fluorescent sand, rose to his feet, then stumbled falling face first again, this time scooping up a mouthful of beach.

The rest of the group had reached the water’s edge and then turned to circle back toward the palm trees lining the shore.

Tijani Hewidi and Saddam Al-Hodeibi stepped up to Fahmi. Hewidi bent down and took his childhood friend’s face by the jaw and raised his head from the sand. Fahmi’s large brown eyes were out of proportion to his face. The long, jagged scar that ran from Fahmi’s left temple to his chin reminded Hewidi how his friend had saved his life—pushed him away from harm—when an Israeli soldier’s jeep had gone out of control and ran Fahmi down when they were both ten.

Fahmi’s body lay heaving, his mouth wide, gasping for oxygen.

“Fahmi, get up,” Hewidi said. “You must get up. You must be strong for the fight against the infidels. Do not disgrace us Fahmi. Do not disgrace me.”

Fahmi Amin lifted his upper body, shoving against his rifle in the sand. As Hewidi stepped back, Fahmi brought his knees up, planted one foot and then the other and staggered to stand. He leaned forward, making Hewidi think he would fall again. Tijani Hewidi took a step toward him, his hands out, then paused.

“Fahmi, for Allah. We live for Allah. We fight for Allah. We die for Allah—now, run for Allah.”

Fahmi Amin stomped forward without looking at Hewidi, his mouth still agape, drawing deep vital breaths. He staggered more, then trotted off tagging behind the rest of the group.

“Fahmi will not make it,” Saddam Al-Hodeibi said, shaking his head and rubbing his goatee. “He will be the cause of our failure.”

Hewidi didn’t look to Al-Hodeibi, but watched his childhood companion.

“He will make it,” he said, knowing he most likely would not. Fahmi was a devout Muslim besides the best friend Hewidi had ever had. Their fathers had been best friends and had fought against the Jews in the Seven Day War.

“But he is so weak!”

“The strength his body has not is made up for by the spirit in his soul.”

“But what if the spirit is not enough? What happens if he becomes a burden?”

“If that happens, we will deal with it as we have dealt with it in the past,” Hewidi said, then turned to Al-Hodeibi. “We will kill him.”

Hewidi turned away, seeing a messenger running down from the village.

“Master Hewidi, Ma’amoun Al-Tayib orders you to come now,” the young boy said puffing. “He has news.”

Hewidi and Al-Hodeibi smiled at one another then sprinted toward the village, the young runner racing behind.

Ma’amoun Al-Tayib sat behind the large table in the three-room stucco home that their brother to the cause, Mohamar Kadafi, had provided. Around the aging and thin holy man, a dozen cases of weapons and ammo were stacked near the walls. He looked up as Hewidi and Al-Hodeibi rushed in.

They caught themselves in the doorway and bowed to their leader, their faces glowing anxiously.

“Master,” Hewidi asked as he bowed, “is it time? May we now have revenge for our dead brothers against the great Satan?”

“Nazir Aziz and his men are prepared to attack the American embassy in Mauritania. He will begin in two days. The American warships now in the Mediterranean are sure to go to their rescue within hours of his attack. You will go now to the ambush site near Oujda and be ready when Aziz seizes the Embassy. The
Chameleon
is soon to change colors.”

“And what if our brother Nazir fails to gain control?”

“That does not matter,” the holy man replied. “The Americans will be drawn into our plan. They will not disappoint us.”

“Praise Allah,” Hewidi said.

Al-Tayib looked to the side and pointed at three aqua, beach-ball-size objects sitting on the floor.

“These have come from our Russian friends, acquired at great risk from their Navy. Take them with you. Your American traitors will know what to do with them when the time comes.”

He reached beside his chair and pulled up an aluminum briefcase, then laid it on the table in front of him. He snapped it open and turned it to show the other two men. It was jammed with bundles of US hundred dollar bills.

“Here is Saddam
Hussein’s gift to the Americans helping our cause. You will take it with you. The other half of the ten million dollars will be provided after the deed is done.”

Al-Tayib stretched his arms out and looked at the weapons’ crates. “Share these arms with my children.

Train them quickly, make them comfortable with the guns.”

Al-Hodeibi stepped to one of the open crates and looked in, touching a rifle. “But master, these are American M-16s. We have already trained with the AK-47s Iran furnished us.”

“Do as I ask. These are what the Americans use. This is what we will have to use for our task.”

“Yes master,” Al-Hodeibi said, raising one of the weapons out of the crate.

Ma’amoun Al-Tayib stood from the table. He smiled, showing black decaying teeth.

“Soon, my children,” he said, “very soon, we will have vengeance and make the great Satan cry like a baby. Mohammed’s warrior from Iraq has helped to buy many useful things. Soon all of Islam will reap a long overdue reward. And we,
Allah’s Jihad
, will be heroes among our people!”

Q AND A

AFTER A QUIET taxi ride with Reeves back to the ship, Spurs went to her stateroom, showered and hit the rack. Too much had happened too fast to digest. Her fellow investigator was some kind of an S&M psycho. Even if he hadn’t intended to hurt her, somehow got carried away because of the wine, she wasn’t about to get into the choking bit. That was for perverts, and she would not play. Perhaps something was in his drink, as it might have been in hers. Maybe those ritzy-titzy Spaniards thought it was funny to drug up Americans. But then, it could have been Reeves that put something in her drink. She couldn’t remember when he’d had the opportunity—she hadn’t left to go to the powder room—but the night had become a blur. She wouldn’t rule out that he’d been in some sort of drug-induced rage, but she certainly wasn’t going to consider it an excuse.

Still, she needed the lieutenant commander for the case. It would be difficult without him, even though she would like to bring him up on assault charges. Attempted rape would be out—she doubted if Reeves could even get it up to choke
his own
chicken.

Reeves had told her about Ensign Ingrassias’ possible drug use. Since Nader was found with cocaine in his nostrils and Ingrassias was the only crewmember suspected of using dope, he would be the one she would question next. She would do so first thing in the morning.

She fell asleep and dreamed about Rocket, the horse her Aunt Katherine and Uncle Paul had given her when she was ten. Spurs and her mother lived with them while the Admiral was at sea. It was the day of her tenth birthday when the long awaited colt stumbled into the world. Uncle Paul promised she could have the colt for a birthday present as soon as it was born, and its arrival seemed perfectly planned. He wasn’t anything special, just a spindly, gaunt little white colt with a black mark in the shape of a rocket above his right eye. But when he grew into a beautiful white stallion, he gave validity to his name, and Spurs rode him through the countryside around Guthrie, Oklahoma. She loved the feel of wind in her hair, the movement of Rocket’s muscular body under hers and the feeling of freedom as the two roamed the red dirt hills at a gallop.

In her dreams, Spurs felt that wind, smelled Rocket’s lathered hide, and remembered that freedom.

* * *

At 1115 the next morning, Spurs was finally ready to catch up with Ensign Ingrassias. A punishing early-morning headache—she guessed from the red wine the night before—had slowed her down, but it had finally subsided and she felt clear headed and eager to get back on track.

Once again, they were getting ready to get underway, this time heading for Bizerte, Tunisia. She looked forward to Livorno, Italy, where the rest of her group of twenty-four were to come aboard. But that was some time away, yet. She hoped shed have things tidied up by then and be back stateside. Many arrangements were to be made, specialty supplies to be ordered such as tampons and other toiletry items the ship hadn’t seen in its forty-five years of service.

Spurs walked in on Ingrassias unexpectedly in the supply room. As she stepped through the hatchway, she saw him setting at a desk, smoking while looking over a list on a clipboard. She smelled incense and noticed the ventilation fan above his desk was on high.

When he looked up to see her, he smashed out the end of his smoke, threw it to the deck and put his right foot over it.

He looked to her with a guilt-flushed face.

“Something I can do for you, Sperling?”

Spurs stepped over to his desk and rested her right hip on it.

“I was hoping that I might be able to help
you
.”

“Help me? Help me how?”

“I thought you might like some ideas on what to order for the female crew members coming aboard.”

He smiled. “Yeah, sure, that’d be great, uh, but not right now. I’ve got a shit load to do. Maybe you could make me a list or something.”

“Be glad to,” she said and lifted from the desk.

She turned to leave but then paused, knowing that Ingrassias still watched her nervously.

“Isn’t incense considered contraband on board ship?” she asked with her back still turned.

“Yeah, it's just that there was some gun oil that leaked out and stunk up the place. I was trying to get rid of the smell.

“Gun oil?”

“Yeah.”

“It must be doing a pretty good job—I don’t smell
any
gun oil.”

“That’s why I used it.”

She turned to him and noticed him try to kick the joint on the floor under his desk.

“How about smoking below decks? The captain’s banned that too, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I forgot.”

Spurs reached under the desk with the toe of her right foot, scooted the homemade cigarette out and picked it up. She raised it and took a good look, then sniffed.

“Funny looking cigarettes you smoke, Ingrassias.”

“I roll my own. What of it?”

“You’re just begging to get caught, aren’t you?”

“Leave me alone,” he said turning away. “Either bust me or leave me the hell alone.”

“Now, how would I bust you?”

“You’re NCIS aren’t you?”

God
, she thought,
I really do stick out
. “Why do you think that?”

“Come on, the whole ship knows. Everybody’s been wondering why they’d send a woman on board undercover. Shit, man, you might as well be wearing a sandwich sign that says
I’m the heat
.”

“All right then, smart ass, tell me why I shouldn’t bust you.”

“There’s no good reason. Go ahead and do it.

Get me the hell off this ship.”

“Why are you so eager to leave?”

“Either arrest me or leave me the hell alone. You nosing around asking questions is gonna get someone killed.”

“I bust you, and you’re going to spend ten years in a federal prison. Is that what you want?”

Ingrassias was silent. He didn’t look at her.

“What happened the night that Nader died? You know, don’t you?”

“I don’t know shit.”

“You’re lying.”

“I told you. . . .”

“Ten years, Ingrassias. Don’t you know what’ll happen to a little doper like you in a federal pen? Answer me and you won’t have to find out—personally.”

Ingrassias looked at the hatch then back to Spurs.

“I’ll tell you all I know, if you get the hell away from me as soon as I do.”

“Go ahead.”

“I was sleeping in my bunk,” he said, nodding to a bunk near the far bulkhead. “Captain Chardoff busted in and started slapping me around. He punched me a couple of times to make sure he got my attention.” He rubbed his mouth. “Then he told me that he knew I had some cocaine and he wanted some of it. I gave him a bag, but he just took a pinch and put it on some cigarette paper and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. I told him to keep the whole thing, but he threw it back at me. Then he told me that I’d been dreaming and fell out of my rack. He said he’d kill me if I told anybody any different.”

“What else?”

“That’s all I know, honest.”

“What about any of the others that are missing— Chief Franken?”

“Franken came down and leaned on me the day after Nader died, too. I told him what I just told you. I don’t know anything else.”

“What about
Jap Rap
?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jap Rap. It’s a new drug—a synthetic cocaine, many times more powerful. Haven’t you heard of it?”

“No. You got any?”

Spurs flipped the joint onto Ingrassias’ desk and turned away. She went to the hatchway.

“Remember,” Ingrassias said. “Don’t tell anybody I talked. Especially that bastard Marine. You keep my secret, I’ll keep yours.”