The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (28 page)

“It appears as if someone is settling quite a large debt,” said Hunter, holding a report in Barclay’s general direction. Barclay made no move to retrieve it.

“An incredibly large debt, Nigel. UniCredit of Ireland had a call this morning on a one hundred million euro note—that’s sovereign debt, Nigel. Who calls in sovereign debt on a Sunday, without notice? The Irish bank had to tap into its parent, UniCredit of Italy. We should—”

Hunter put his hand on Barclay’s arm. “Hold on, Quinn. It’s early. The transactions will begin to even out. Give it some time. I’ve got to get some coffee.”

Nigel Hunter got up from his walnut desk in the HSBC tower in London and walked to the door of his office, looking in vain for his secretary. “You would think the second-largest bank in the world could afford to hire enough help, even on the weekend,” he mumbled. Reena was nowhere to be seen. He stopped the first girl who passed his door. “Clarice, I need more caffeine. Toddle down to the Starbucks and get me a refill, please.”

When he turned back into his office, Hunter saw Quinn Barclay still standing by his desk, the transaction report still in his hand. It was Nigel Hunter’s job to keep track of the monetary transactions of the largest banks in the eighty-eight countries where HSBC did business. It was a task he generally assigned to his staff—like Quinn. And it was a task he did not want to tackle this morning.

“You’re still here?”

“Nigel, I think this is something—”

Peter Carruthers, always polite and deferential, stopped and knocked on the open door. A small stack of paper was bunched up in his right fist. “Have a moment?”

This time, without waiting for an answer, Carruthers quick-stepped across the carpet, side-stepped Quinn Barclay, and shoved the stack of papers in Hunter’s direction. “Banco Santander and EFG in Greece just received calls on sovereign debt that neither bank can cover. The Bank of Spain and the National Bank of Greece have stepped in, but … well, I don’t think they’re liquid enough.”

The cobwebs were replaced by a headache, but the headache was trumped by a fear growing in Hunter’s chest. “How much?”

“Two hundred million in Spain, one hundred million in Greece.”

“Dollars?”

“Euros,” said Carruthers.

Nigel Hunter looked at the other two men in his office and all three understood the magnitude of the disaster they were witnessing. “Who could be doing this?” he mumbled to himself. Hunter swept up his jacket from the back of his chair and was moving as he stuffed his arms in the sleeves. “Follow me.”

12:17 p.m., Persian Gulf, near Larak Island, Iran

The blood pumping from his left stump, sheared below the knee by the rocket, mingled with the seawater dripping off his body as Lieutenant Andrew Stone pulled himself into what was left of the stern of the
Lucky Dog.
How this hunk of inflatable was still afloat—and whether it would stay afloat—was a problem for later. How to keep from bleeding to death was Stone’s immediate concern. He pulled the belt from his uniform khakis, wrapped it around the stump, just above the knee so it wouldn’t slip off, held his breath, closed his eyes, said a prayer, and pulled.

Stone knew he screamed from the pain. He just couldn’t hear it. Phalanx and the .50-cals were still banging away at the swarming Iranian boats, explosions rocked both the air and the sea, and the air smelled like bad meat at a cookout. But when the blinding bolts cleared from his eyes and the pain subsided from unbearable to withering, Stone quickly looked around to assess his situation.

He had managed to pull his body over an inflated cross member, used as a seat, and into a shallow well between the seat and the boat’s stern. Precarious, but afloat, Stone rested his back against the gunwale. The tourniquet had staunched the flow of blood considerably. All around him the mayhem of battle continued unabated. The Iranian small boats were pressing closer to the
Ponce,
their zigzagging wakes tossing around what was left of
Lucky Dog
like laundry flapping in a stiff breeze. But they were ignoring the shattered body of Lieutenant Stone and the shattered remains of
Lucky Dog.
There were bigger fish in the sea—like the
Ponce.
Or the
Nimitz.

Stone found the first-aid kit strapped under the gunwale where it was supposed to be. He poured saline solution over his stump, covered it with a quick-clot packet and an Israeli pressure dressing and drove a hypodermic of painkiller into his thigh. There was another container secured to his right, stenciled
“EXPLOSIVES.”
Stone looked at the waterproof box and wondered what he could do with some explosives in the middle of this battle.

And he
was
in the middle of it.

Ordnance was flying over his head—which he kept down, close to the gunwale—from almost every direction. The Iranian boats—some well-armed, small coastal attack boats, others hastily reconfigured pleasure craft with mounted machine guns and RPG launchers—were swirling in random arcs that often passed on either side of the mangled inflatable, drawing fire from the ships and aircraft of the Fifth Fleet. Attention seemed to be everywhere except on the useless hunk of Neoprene tossing aimlessly on the waters of the Persian Gulf. Stone thought of his father. What would
he
do in this situation?
Would he ever know?
For the first time Stone regretted the decision he made before entering the academy.
Shake it off. You’re not helpless. What can you do?

His eyes fell once more on the box to his right. The explosives in the box were miniature limpet mines, smaller versions of the magnetic mines placed against the hulls of ships for over one hundred years. These limpets were designed specifically for use against smaller craft and were to be used in the attack on the Iranian naval facilities.

With the morphine doing its job, Lieutenant Stone felt little discomfort as he reached to his right, unfastened the securing ropes from the explosives box, and pulled it to him. He released the latches and opened the box. Inside were two dozen miniature limpets—two levels of twelve—each secured in foam rubber cushion. The mines were small enough to fit in the palm of a hand, a rounded oval—like a football—but flat on one side where the magnet was located. Because of the strong magnet, that side was heavier than the rest of the mine, assuring that the limpet would fasten properly to the hull of any metal ship.

Stone looked at the mines. They reminded him of the footballs he and his brothers used to sling around the back yard of their home in Dallas, each one claiming to be the next Troy Aikman. And that fleeting vision of flying balls filled his mind with purpose.

Lieutenant Stone kept his head down at the level of the gunwale behind him, but he could look out the shattered front of the boat and see the swirling vessels of the enemy. He ignored the fiberglass-hulled pleasure craft. But the open-water ships, metal hulled, those he tracked. He hefted one of the deadly mini-mines, feeling its weight, its balance, his eyes never leaving the swarm of boats. And he tried to assess just how much time he might have left. And how many touchdowns he could score.

While the wild dance of a hundred zigzagging boats was enough to generate vertigo in any observer, Stone discerned a more predictable pattern in the naval boats steered by more veteran hands. They moved more slowly, purposefully picking their way through the rollicking wakes and avoiding the paths of the more frantic vessels. Swarming, yes. Moving quickly, abruptly changing direction. But the maneuvers of these skippers were measured, not manic. And that deadly ballet often came in close proximity of the maimed hulk of
Lucky Dog.

Stone steadied his right leg against the inflated crossbeam, got his hands under his left thigh, lifted the stump, and pushed with his right leg, forcing his lower back against the hard rubber gunwale—and driving an excruciating dagger of pain through his left thigh and hip. He fought to retain consciousness and then pulled the munitions box closer to his right side.

Gasping down two, quick, deep-cleansing breaths, Stone placed his left hand on the deck of the inflatable and held the first of the limpets loosely at his right side. The first one would be interesting. How far could he throw? What could he hit? Would it stick? Would it go off?
Off!
Stone looked down at the mine in his hand and realized he needed to set the timer. But for how long? How long would it take for the right boat to get close enough? How long would it take for him to set the timer and get the mine ready to launch? How …

There was only one way to answer all of those questions. Stone flipped up the cap on the end of the limpet mine. The timer could be set in minutes, not seconds. He pushed the up-arrow to 1, then pressed the red button—and began to count.

Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.

How long to throw, hit, and clamp on? Five seconds?

Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight. Forty—

Cushion. He needed a little cushion, some wiggle-room … just in case.

Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one.

Now he needed a target.
Lord, give me favor.

Twenty-three. Twenty-two.

A gray coastal patrol boat was moving through the mayhem, edging its way closer. Stone gauged the speed and the distance of the boat, the weight of the mine, the strength of his arm. And he waited.

Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.

The coastal boat was too far. But a small cutter sliced in his direction. He wondered how long he could wait.

Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.

Seven. Six.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Any port in a storm.

Four. Three.

A fairly large, heavily armed fishing boat, in a wide, fast turn, cut a heavy wake near the
Lucky Dog.
Probably fiberglass hull. But a massive, metal winch affixed to its stern.
Don’t throw a baseball. Throw like Troy Aikman.

Stone pulled his right hand up and threw the mine with all the strength left in his body. It soared as if it were designed for the NFL, cutting through the air in a perfect spiral. And missed horribly. Horribly for the fishing boat. The mine arced high over Stone’s target, the metal winch, as the fishing boat completed its turn away from
Lucky Dog
and would have continued for quite some distance had not it run smack into the back of the boat’s bridge, falling through a gangway to the deck. Where it exploded in a giant orange-yellow fireball, obliterating the bridge and splitting the fishing boat amidships.

Smoke pouring out, its hull careening as its split was forced farther apart by the rush of seawater. Stone watched in awe as the fishing boat listed to starboard and slipped beneath the churning waves.

Stone yanked a second limpet from the munitions box, hastily punched in the numbers, and looked for his next target.

Two missed completely, the explosions unnoticed in the chaos of battle, but three others had found their mark. Shattered, smoking pieces of two smaller boats floated on the surface not far from
Lucky Dog,
and an Iranian patrol boat was listing heavily, limping east toward Iran’s coast, a hole in its side, just above the waterline.

Stone was encouraged, not just from his improving marksmanship but also from the clearly diminished number of attacking boats. Phalanx, Death Star, and quarterback Stone were harvesting destruction throughout the swarm. But time was running out. Particularly for Stone. His shattered leg continued to bleed, and its stump was turning a sickening color. He didn’t think there were many more throws left in this body.

He held a mine in each hand—each armed and counting down—and prayed for something big to come within range.

Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three.

Running at flank speed, nimbly and randomly swerving to evade the destructive bursts from Phalanx, an Iranian patrol boat was driven in Stone’s direction by withering fire from the American flotilla. The timing would be tight, but if he kept coming closer …

Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen. He’s in range …