The Rig 2: Storm Warning Page 5
“Elly Boukhari, CBS News. Miss Schneider, how do you feel about the father of your child, Akhmed Hussain Abbasi, having committed the greatest terrorist attack since 9/11? And how much has his radicalization affected you? Was he ever violent to you? Did he make you convert to Islam, too?”
She felt her jaw drop. What the hell was going on here? In a reflex, she retreated back into the hallway. She noticed that the reporter was trying to follow her, but she slammed the door shut as hard as she could. And she felt the tears well up in her eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
The dinghy still drifted close to the USCGC Hurricane when the VHF DSC phone rang. Commander Lovell sighed when he saw the frequency that it came in on. He picked up the receiver.
“Whiskey Papa Charlie One Niner. This is Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. Do you copy?”
The Commander pressed the button to transmit and spoke the call sign back.
“Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal, this is Whiskey Papa Charlie One Niner. Copy.”
“Is that Commander Lovell? Over.”
“Affirmative. Over.”
“Commander Lovell, you are required to let the FEMA officer board. Over.”
Commander Lovell sighed again and rubbed his face. He swore under his breath. How could anyone demand that he let strangers on board his cutter? Especially if they were going to try to boss him around. “Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. Repeat.”
“Whiskey Papa Charlie One Niner. Let the FEMA officer come aboard. Over.”
“Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal cannot comply. Over.”
“Commander Lovell. Explain. Over.”
“Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. Man tried to come aboard my cutter claiming to be from FEMA but refusing to identify. Have standing orders not to accept unidentified persons on board cutter. Over.”
There was silence on the other side of the line. Commander Lovell knew they were discussing something at the station. Then the radio phone crackled back to life. Another voice came through the receiver.
“Commander Lovell? This is Charles Palermo. I order you to let FEMA run this operation.”
There was a long silence, but Commander Lovell did hear the click of the transmission being released. He said nothing. He would not make this easy on them, even if the secretary for Homeland Security was giving him direct orders now.
“Commander Lovell? Did you hear me?” The voice came through the receiver again.
“Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. This is Whiskey Papa Charlie One Niner. Did you transmit? Over.”
“Commander Lovell, you will listen to my orders!”
The voice sounded angry. Commander Lovell grinned. It was the sort of anger that came from powerlessness. The man did not understand procedure and did not understand why he was not listening.
“Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. Did you transmit? Over.”
A tirade rang into his ears and he held the receiver away from his ear. He saw the master next to him on the bridge smile broadly at him. Eventually the tirade stopped and he heard another voice come back on the line.
“Whiskey Papa Charlie One Niner. Commander Lovell? We have the secretary of Homeland Security with us, ordering you to let the FEMA officer come aboard. Do you read? Over.”
“Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. I read but cannot comply due to standing orders. Over.”
There was silence again. He could imagine the scene at the station. He knew the man had made an issue of not having to identify, but he would not let him take over his cutter without knowing his name.
“Whiskey Papa Charlie One Niner. FEMA officer belongs to headquarters of FEMA Region Niner. Name confidential. Over.”
“Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. Cannot comply. Cannot allow strangers on board due to standing orders. Over.”
“Whiskey Papa Charlie One Niner.”
There was a pause in the transmission, even though the button remained pressed down.
“FEMA officer will be advising only. Please comply. He will not be taking command. Over.”
Commander Lovell shook his head, but he knew eventually they would simply solve the problem by ordering him back to port and sending another cutter.
“Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. Inform the man in the dingy he may come aboard as an advisor. Over.”
“Thank you Commander Lovell. We will inform the dinghy. Uniform Sierra Charlie Golf Whiskey Decimal. Out.”
Lovell still did not like the man when he came aboard and made his way onto the bridge.
“Steer closer and engage your sonar system,” the man bluntly ordered, without even bothering to greet him.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” the man growled.
“I heard you say something, but I am disinclined to listen to your yapping.”
“You have orders to listen to FEMA officers.”
“I have no such orders. I was told to accept you on board as an advisor.”
Commander Lovell caught himself crossing his arms and glaring at the man.
“So either you advise me or you shut your trap. I have no use for orders from you.”
The FEMA officer grunted and puffed his chest out. He wanted to protest that again, but he realized Lovell would not be listening to him. He sighed and deflated.
“There are a few FBI agents on board. We believe they will try to use one of the research submarines to escape from the rig when they have finished their work. We need you to keep everyone at bay and use your sonar system to find the submarine when it leaves ‘The City’.”
“Why would you think that?”
“We’ve been in touch with them. Their phones are still working and they claimed earlier that they would use one of those to escape if need be. We need to rescue them.”
“Why are we just rescuing FBI agents? Why is there not a big rescue action mounted to save as many people from that place as possible?” Commander Lovell was astounded by the cold-heartedness of the man and the organization he represented.
“We don’t need anyone else to survive, Commander.”
Chapter Sixteen
Akhmed slowly emerged from behind the submarine. He kept the gun pointed at Wes, but his hands shook.
“Akhmed Hussain Abbasi?” Wes asked him gently.
“Who are you?” Akhmed asked nervously. “What do you want?”
“I’m Wes Canfield. I’m one of the marine biologists who work here. I just want to talk to you.”
Sheila showed up behind Wes. Akhmed twitched the pistol to point at her.
“And you?”
Sheila ducked and crouched behind Wes, her hands on her head.
“For fuck’s sake,” Akhmed swore. “What do you want?”
“Never mind Sheila. I just want to talk,” Wes distractingly said.
“Talk?” Akhmed looked puzzled.
Wes stepped closer and looked Akhmed in the eyes.
“Did you do what they say you did? Did you set off that bomb?”
Akhmed shook his head. He slowly lowered the gun.
“No...”
“Who did?” Wes dropped his hands.
“Fatima. The DJ...” Akhmed watched Sheila come closer, too, finally having risen again. “She was working with Smith and Garcia. They had a plan to blow this place up and kill me, and make everyone believe I was responsible for it.”
Wes looked behind and saw Sheila come closer. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to his side.
“Do you know why they would do that?” he asked.
Akhmed shook his head again, but then looked up.
“I might,” he said. He looked both Wes and Sheila in the eye. He put the safety back on the weapon and tucked it back into his belt. “Have you ever heard of the six-week cycle?”
Wes shook his head and Sheila just gave him a blank look.
“What is the six-week cycle?”
***
Smith checked his gun before he even entered the staircase. It was a precaution he hoped would not be necessary, but he did it. He felt nervous. His body was not doing what he wanted it to do and he knew he was on edge and emotionally unstable. He knew what he needed as well, and he knew he would not be able to get it until they got off this stupid rig.
Smith kept the gun out of the holster as he began making his way up the stairs. It was tougher than he wanted it to be, with his body demanding he stop and take what he had so liberally supplied it with for months now. He swore at himself and pushed on. He would have to deal with that problem when he got back to shore.
It was a long way to the top of ‘The City’ where the offices were. He stopped a few times to give himself a breather before carrying on. Eventually, the last flight of stairs was a memory and he steadied himself against the wall of the corridor of the office deck. It took him a while to bring his heart rate down again and control his breathing, but he managed it. He walked carefully through the corridor and found the whole deck empty. All except for one office. It was the grandest office of them all, with glass doors and a lavishly furnished interior. It read, ‘Stryker, C.E.O.’, on the door.
In the office was a single man. When Smith pushed through the door the man looked up, “Now who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Smith.”
He pointed the gun at the man.
“And is that your friend, Wesson?” the man from the office sniped. “I’m Reg McCoy, I run this place since Mr. Stryker has fucked off. Now will you please fuck off as well? I have work to do.”
He picked up his phone again and began calling.
Smith raised the weapon and hoped his hands would be steady enough to make this shot. He pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped the phone from Reg’s hand. Reg looked stunned. His eyes were wide open as he stared down the barrel of the gun. Smith stepped closer.
“I want to ask you some questions, Mister McCoy. And I am going to warn you now. Every time you do not answer me or answer incorrectly, I will shoot one of your limbs out. Unfortunately, my aim is not too steady right now.”
He touched his nose and sniffed. Reg looked at him and snorted a giggle. Slowly he raised his hand and used it to open a drawer on Stryker’s desk. His hand rested on the gun there for a moment, but he saw Smith beginning to protest and the gun twitch. He picked up the bag of white powder and slowly raised it above the desk. He threw it at Smith.
“Take as much of Stryker’s as you need. If you’re going to be shooting me, I’d rather you weren’t shaking.”
Smith went closer and drew his handcuffs from the vest he wore. He shackled Reg to the chair. Reg did not resist. There was no point resisting with a gun pointed at him. Reg watched as Smith laid out some lines on the smoothly polished table and snorted them up. He could see how much the man was shaking when he was doing that and how the staggers and jags stopped not long after his nose came away from the coffee table.
“Thank you, Mister McCoy,” Smith smiled at Reg. He brought the gun up and pointed it at Reg’s knee. “Now, can you tell me where Akhmed Hussain Abbasi is?”
“Nope.”
Reg was still smiling when the bullet smashed into his knee.
***
Garcia looked away when he saw what Smith was going to do. He was not soft, but he did not like this. It was wrong. He scrolled through the list of camera feeds and saw the nurse leaving the bar by the Plaza. There must still be people alive in there. Probably hurt, but they would not be a danger to any part of their mission.
He yawned and looked around. He noticed there was a baseball on the desk, he picked it up and found it was signed by one of the greatest baseball players of the Los Angeles Dodgers; his team. He put the ball into his pocket, planning to give it to his son as a gift. Then he looked back at the camera feed of the office. Smith had put the gun to the temple of the mess of a man now. The man did not move, apart from the small heaves of his chest. Garcia shook his head and looked away again as Smith pulled the trigger.
***
Smith wiped his gun on Reg’s clothes. It did not make too much of a difference as Reg was a mess of blood. He opened the drawer Reg had taken the bag of blow from. There was a handkerchief there and another bag of powder. It looked like this Stryker dude was worse than he was, he thought.
He felt better though, and he had no trouble going down the stairs. He knew exactly where his target was now. No point in waiting. Fatima had messed up earlier; his job was to make sure everything was righted and he would do so as soon as he could.
He ran through the Plaza, gun still in hand. He did not notice the eyes that followed him from a broken window above one of the bars.
***
Akhmed pulled out a crate and sat down. He rested his head in his hands for a moment and breathed deeply.
“I heard about it once or twice before this happened. I never believed it. I always thought it was just another conspiracy theory. But after this, I can’t do anything other than believe that it’s true.”
Wes pulled out a few more crates and sat down, urging Sheila to sit down as well.
“So what is it?”
“I never researched it, I only heard people mention it before. Some people on campus listened to some show and once in a while when something happened, they would blame it on the six-week cycle.”
Sheila looked at him suspiciously. Wes had been right. This man did not look like someone who could be a terrorist. He was too nice. He was smart and he did not speak like some radical.
“Before you get onto some conspiracy theory,” she said, “what did happen?”
Akhmed looked at her and she saw how sad he was.
“I’ve been protesting against this place for ages. But my protests were always getting shut down. Eventually, I became desperate and someone proposed joining up with DJ Medina. She wanted to disrupt this place using sound waves. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. But it was a frame up. There was a bomb instead. I was in the bathroom when it went off. Fatima tried to shoot me; she wanted to make it look like I’d committed suicide. But she got knocked down by the blast and failed to kill me, so here I am.”
Wes and Sheila listened quietly as he told that story. It was horrible that something like that could happen.
“But why?” Sheila asked.
“Only thing I can think of is the six-week cycle,” Akhmed answered.
“So, what is it?” Sheila said. “Besides a conspiracy theory?”
“It seems the FBI needs stuff to happen in the USA to keep government’s money flowing to their coffers. The theory goes on to claim that there is research saying the general population remembers to stay scared of terrorists for about six weeks. If the powers that be aren’t confident there is going to be something, it’s said that they’ll then set something up.”
Wes nodded slowly. Actually, the theory made some sense. There were a lot of horrible events in the United States a lot of the time. Almost on a regular basis.
“Why do you think it’s the FBI?”
“Those guys claiming they are FBI in the PA announcement; Smith and Garcia. They are the ones who approached me in the first place.”
Sheila blinked. She did not believe it as much as Wes did.
“Why doesn’t the media report on this, though? Journalists must have picked up on this.”
Akhmed was about to answer her, but Wes provided the answer instead.
“Most media houses are entertainment now. Journalists tend to be more interested in, quite literally, ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’ than what anyone important is saying or doing.”
He looked at Akhmed.
“You could be right about it, you know.”
“Of course, he is right,” a voice behind them said.
They all looked up to see a man in a suit standing in the doorway, pointing a gun straight at Akhmed. “He’s right… or I should say, he was right.”
And the man pulled the trigger.
; Chapter Seventeen
The nurse had just left. She had said Joy would be fine. She needed to rest, but should not be allowed to sleep for more than an hour. If she drifted into unconsciousness, it could lead to lasting effects. She could give her nothing, but urged Dave to keep cooling her head in hope that the swelling would diminish. Dave dutifully did so, until Joy woke up and scolded him for it. She was cold, she said. There was no need to keep her cold; so Dave allowed her to rest.
He took a seat by the broken window and looked out over the Plaza. He did not even notice the carnage there. Strange, he thought as he opened a beer on the window ledge. The fridge had still been stocked with cold beer. There were no customers now to drink it though, and he doubted anyone would care about him taking one without it going on his tab.
There was a man running through the Plaza. He saw it from the corner of his eye, but it drew his full attention. He sat bolt upright and looked more closely. The man held a gun in his hand. He was edgy, rushed. Why would anyone be running there? Especially a man in a black suit with a gun in hand.
He kept his eyes on the man and watched him disappear into the staircase on the other side of the Plaza. The same one Wes and Sheila had gone down. The stairs that lead to the docks. He had a sudden feeling something was not right. He put the beer down and looked at Joy. She was sleeping again. He felt he could leave her alone for a moment.
Dave ran down the stairs and walked out onto the Plaza. He did not know why he was going after this man, but he felt he had to. He could not explain that feeling. The word would be intuition, he reckoned. Slowly and as quietly as possible he went down the staircase, expecting to see the man with the gun at every twist of the stairs.
***
The shot rang loudly through the docks and the bullet slammed into Akhmed’s chest. Blood sprayed Wes and Sheila. Akhmed fell backwards with a surprised look on his face. He made as though to clutch his chest, but his hands never reached the spot where the bullet struck. Wes looked at the shooter, completely dumbfounded. Sheila looked at him and felt her jaw drop. She wanted to scream, but her voice stopped in her throat.