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  Through the dividing wall of glass, Zack saw the doors open in the back of the execution chamber. The same navy corpsmen pushed the gurney carrying Lieutenant Commander Reska into the execution chamber. Two more corpsmen followed, rolling in Commander Mohammed Olajuwon, the senior Muslim chaplain in the navy, at least for the next few minutes. Another pair of corpsmen appeared with the third condemned chaplain, Lieutenant Commander Charles Abdul-Sehen, and all three gurneys were then raised to an upright position, facing the gallery. Microphones were positioned beside each gurney.

  Zack noted the clock on the wall behind them. Eight minutes to midnight.

  A navy captain, wearing the breastplate of a Navy SEAL, walked into the execution chamber, followed by three medical officers who would pronounce the chaplains' deaths.

  The captain nodded, and the corpsmen swabbed both arms of the accused with rubbing alcohol. IVs were inserted into both arms of each prisoner. One contained a harmless saline solution. The other carried the lethal dosage of potassium chloride. In this way, neither corpsman could be sure he actually administered the killing agent.

  When all six IVs had been inserted, the navy captain stepped forward, his back to the audience, his face to the condemned men, and spoke into a microphone, his voice reverberating into the gallery.

  "Commander Mohammed Olajuwon, Chaplain Corps, United States Navy; Lieutenant Commander Charles Abdul-Sehen, Chaplain Corps, United States Navy; and Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Reska, Chaplain Corps, United States Navy, having been convicted by a general court-martial for the offenses of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and treason, and having been condemned to die for these offenses, and such execution order having been signed by the president of the United States, effective midnight tonight, you will now each be given a maximum of one minute to make a final statement, should you so choose.

  "In keeping with tradition, and in accordance with the regulations of the naval service, the senior officer, Commander Olajuwon, shall have the opportunity to speak first.

  "Commander Olajuwon, do you wish to make a statement?"

  From the center gurney, Olajuwon leaned over toward the microphone positioned beside him. "I do, sir," he snapped in a defiant voice.

  "Very well," the captain replied. "What say you, sir?"

  Olajuwon's eyes shifted back and forth like a windshield wiper in slow motion. "I say, glory to Allah, and to the prophet Mohammed -- peace be upon him. I say . . . death to America!" His black eyes shot blazing sparks of rage as he held his neck back, his face to the ceiling, and in an almost worshipful moan, said, "Glory forever to Islam. May Allah forever bring jihad against all who oppose the Great Faith. Death to Christian and Jewish infidels!" His eyes closed, and he fell silent.

  "Lieutenant Commander Abdul-Sehen. Is there anything you wish to say?"

  "Death to America! Death to her Zionist puppet, Israel!" Abdul Sehen looked up at Zack and Wendy, then appeared to be looking at the other officers, dignitaries, and press representatives. "Death to the United States Navy!" Following Olajuwon's lead, Abdul Sehen then dropped his head back and closed his eyes.

  "Lieutenant Commander Reska. Would you care to make a final statement?"

  Reska opened his eyes. "Yes, Captain."

  "Very well. You may speak."

  Reska looked straight out into the center of the galley. "To the families of Petty Officer Aziz and Commander Latcher, I say, I am truly sorry. And to Lieutenant Brewer . . ." He paused, his eyes searching the gallery for Zack; when their eyes locked, he said simply, "Thank you." A pause. "That is all."

  Zack lifted his gaze to the clock on the wall behind the condemned men. The minute and hour hands were already aligned on twelve, waiting for the second hand to catch up. Fifteen seconds. Ten seconds. Five Seconds.

  "Administer toxicants," the captain said, prompting all six corpsmen to turn small plastic screws on the bags hanging on each side of each chaplain. Liquid flowed through the plastic tubes into the men's arms. Olajuwon and Abdul Sehen flinched as the high dosages hit their veins. Reska simply closed his eyes and smiled.

  It was as if all three simply fell asleep. Ten minutes later, the medical officers declared them dead. Zack closed his eyes, grateful that Diane hadn't been subjected to this.

  For Zack Brewer, the case of United States v. Mohammed Olajuwon et al., at long last, was over.

  Council of Ishmael headquarters

  Rub al-Khali Desert

  It is over. They are gone," Abdur Rhaman said to Hussein al-Akhma. "In the name of Allah the merciful, order execution of Islamic Glory."

  "It is as you say, Leader."

  CHAPTER 13

  Point Cires, Morocco

  Southern shore of the Strait of Gibraltar1700 hours

  The sun had inched slowly to the west all afternoon, ducking in and out of an intermittent cloud cover. Its frequent disappearances brought an unwelcome chill from the strong sea breeze. And each time the glowing orb reemerged from its annoying game of hide-and-seek, it reappeared with less warmth.

  The dark blue waters of the eastern horizon flirted with the ebbing sunlight, turning it into a kaleidoscope of reds and purples. Waily Rah-min turned away from the direction of his occupied homeland to face the narrow eight-mile strait in front of him.

  His heart jumped as the slanting sun clipped the top masts of the gray warship entering the strait. He pointed the high-powered telescope at the sleek man-of-war, then brought his right eye in contact with the lens.

  The view revealed a stream of churning water in the ship's wake. A slight adjustment overshot the strait altogether, the early evening lights from Point Marroqui on the Spanish side, eight miles away, now in view.

  Waily blurted a curse word in Arabic and then lowered the telescope slightly. This time the image of the sharp, sleek bow with the hull number 50 painted on the side, ploughed through the water from the left of the oval view. Next, the blocklike superstructure came into view, rising above the waterline, followed by a steel cross mast. And then a second, higher steel cross mast. Flying just behind the second steel cross, the red, white, and blue rag known as the Stars and Stripes.

  "American warship! American warship!" Waily Rahmin shouted in high-pitched Arabic.

  That proclamation brought two other members of the watch team rushing to his side.

  "Where?" Tariq Tamman demanded.

  "There." Waily pointed out at the Strait of Gibraltar.

  "Valley Forge class cruiser," Tariq observed.

  "Here comes another!" Waily swung his telescope to the left as an identical warship came into view.

  "You are witnessing the lead ships of the battle group," Tariq said. "I have seen this many times before. The Great Satan headed to our homeland to terrorize our people with its ships and planes and missiles." The watch leader paused, the wind whipping through his black hair, as a third ship trailed in the wake of the other two. "The carrier should appear over the western horizon within the next hour or so."

  Tariq, the eldest of the team, brought his binoculars to his eyes and scanned to the left, toward the Atlantic. "Very good work, Waily."

  "Thank you."

  "How old are you?"

  "Twenty-two," Waily said.

  Tariq put his hand on Waily's shoulder. "Keep watch for the carrier. When it appears, you shall have the honor of announcing its sighting to the Council, my son."

  Waily pondered the idea of Hussein al-Akhma learning his name. The name of a loyal sentry on watch, waiting on the front lines in the battle against the great enemy of Islam. At the thought, chills shot down his spine.

  The wind grew stronger and colder as the large orange ball kissed the western waters of the Atlantic. But the adrenaline that pumped from Waily Rahmin's chest warmed his body. Just last year, he volunteered to die for Allah by strapping dynamite to his chest for a mission in a bus on a crowded street in the West Bank. How disappointed he felt when another martyr was chosen instead.

  Now, for the first time, he understoo
d why Allah had deprived him of that opportunity for glorious martyrdom. He was born for this very moment! This he now knew with all his heart. What a blessed man he was.

  "Aircraft carrier!" Someone shouted in Arabic. Waily turned and saw the third watch-team member, Misbah Mudar, pointing excitedly to the left.

  "I see it!" Tariq said.

  Misbah's excited shout jolted like lightning through Waily's body. He snapped his right hand against his forehead, almost like the British saluted when they occupied Palestine, then squinted in the direction Misbah pointed, at the orange reflection of the dying sun on the water . . . at the distinctive, dark gray silhouette of a flattop pushing through the water, its superstructure growing larger by the moment.

  Waily swung the telescope around to the left. His hands were shaking as he tried to bring the ship into focus.

  "Can you make out the number?" Tariq scanned the horizon with his binoculars.

  A deafening roar distracted Waily before he could answer. He moved his gaze to the strait. Two U.S. Navy jet fighters, both with twin turbofan engines shooting fire, streaked like missiles toward the Mediterranean. His eyes followed the jets until they disappeared an instant later.

  Waily looked back toward the carrier, this time finding it clearly in his telescope. He fidgeted with the focus mechanism once more, bringing into clear view the large white number painted on the superstruc-ture: 75.

  "Seventy-five, sir," Waily said. "I can see it now."

  "Ah, the Harry S. Truman, just as expected," Tariq said. "Are you prepared to make the call, Waily?"

  "It would be a great honor, sir," Waily said.

  A moment later, Tariq handed Waily a cell phone. "Minorca is on the line."

  Waily took the phone and, just as he had rehearsed a hundred times in his mind, spoke into it in Arabic. "Minorca, Morocco. The whale is in the bottle. Seventy-five. Repeat, the whale is in the bottle."

  Static nearly obscured the voice on the other end. Finally, Waily heard, "Acknowledge, Morocco. The whale is in the bottle. Seventy-five."

  "The whale is in the bottle," Waily repeated, then hung up as the chopping sounds of two U.S. Navy helicopters, each with blinking running lights and a trailing stream of smoke, grew louder and closed in.

  "Break down the telescopes," Tariq ordered. "We must get out of here."

  CHAPTER 14

  Port Mahon, Minorca

  Balearic Islands

  Western Mediterranean2100 hours

  The obnoxious ring made the gray of her eyes fade to nothingness. Carlos blinked once, twice, then realized his summer holiday on the French Riviera had ended last week. The telephone had ruined his dream.

  Another hideous ring. He cursed under his breath as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark: the faint image of the modest bureau at the foot of his bed, the four bedposts pointing toward the rotating ceiling fan.

  Perhaps it is her, he thought when the buzzing did not stop. The thought energized him to roll onto his side, reach over to the small wooden table beside his bed, and fumble for the telephone.

  Thinking of the woman, he used an inviting tone. "Si?"

  "The whale is in the bottle," a male voice said in Spanish. "Repeat, the whale is in the bottle."

  "The minnow is in the pond," Carlos grunted, his mood deflated.

  "The whale is in the bottle. Repeat, the whale is in the bottle."

  "I will be down in five minutes," Carlos said in Spanish. He slammed down the phone, flipped on a lamp, stepped into a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans, and pulled a black turtleneck sweater over his head.

  Carlos was not sure what was meant by the phrase, "The whale is in the bottle." His contacts never told him. The only thing he knew for sure was this: Within a matter of five to ten minutes, he would be collecting a briefcase full of sixty-five thousand United States dollars, small bill denominations. His only requirement for earning the money was cranking his forty-foot cruiser, Bella Maria, and giving two passengers a ride in it, full power, south-southeast to a designated point in the middle of the Mediterranean.

  They were the same passengers every time. Arab chaps by the names of Falik and Ghazi. They had called on his services six times now in the last two years, and for sixty-five grand per trip, no questions needed to be asked.

  By now, Carlos knew their routine. Eight hours into the trip, when the cruiser reached 38 degrees north latitude, 3 degrees east longitude -- almost dead center in the Mediterranean -- he would cut the engine, setting the vessel adrift. Then one man would wail something Arabic-sounding into a handheld radio.

  At first, the practice was puzzling. But by the third trip, he began to suspect that the phrase, "The whale is in the bottle," was being used whenever an American aircraft carrier passed through the Strait of Gibraltar from the Atlantic, headed for the Eastern Mediterranean.

  He had no proof. But it was hard to keep the passage of a United States battle group a secret. The Strait of Gibraltar, a narrow bottleneck six hundred statute miles southeast of Mahon, was so narrow a nuclear aircraft carrier could hardly hide from public view. And when, the following day, the European press announced the entry of an American flattop into the Med, Carlos began making his own deductions.

  Even still, Carlos Ortega saw no harm in what he was doing. His small craft posed no threat to any vessel owned by the U.S. Navy. Ghazi and Falik weren't armed. Even if they were, they couldn't harm one of the mightiest warships ever constructed.

  Carlos stepped onto the pier and saw the whites of the two Arabs' eyes. One of them, Falik, smiled, shook Carlos's hand, and handed him a briefcase. The other man carried a gym bag, which he did not give up.

  "For you, my brother," Falik said in Spanish dosed with a heavy Arab accent. "It is all there, but you can count it if you like."

  Carlos laid the briefcase on the dock. He looked around, and when he saw no one in the vicinity, he popped open the latches and shined his flashlight on the stacks of twenty-dollar bills. The briefcase bulged with cash, as always. And these men had never cheated him before.

  "That will not be necessary, my friends," he said. "Step inside. I know you are anxious to get under way."

  Four hours later, Carlos cut the boat's engines, setting it adrift on the rolling seas under the bright, starlit canopy. He checked the GPS. 38deg03'02"N; 3deg01'08"E. Almost dead on mark.

  The two Arabs lit up cigarettes, as they typically did, and lumbered out of the cabin and into the aft section of the boat. Following the glow from their cigarettes and against the dim radiance from the quarter moon and the Milky Way, Carlos saw them fidgeting in the gym bag.

  Carlos reached into the inboard ice chest, grabbed an ice-cold beer, and took a swig as he watched the mysterious duo. They pulled the usual walkie-talkie devices from the bags, and Carlos knew what would follow: Arabic wailing, then the return trip to shore.

  Falik put the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "Oscar India Golf," he said in English.

  Carlos raised his eyebrow as the wind picked up, blowing in from the stern, the Spanish pennant flapping in response. He took another swig. This was the first time he had heard either man speak English.

  "Repeat, Oscar India Golf."

  Strange. They speak to me in Spanish. They talk to each other in Arabic. And now this.

  "Oscar India Golf. Repeat, Oscar India Golf."

  He lifted his beer. For sixty-five thousand dineros, they can speak whatever language they want.

  Radio Communications Center

  USS Harry S. Truman

  Western Mediterranean

  Radioman First Class Bob Whitlow, in dark blue dungarees and a light blue short-sleeved enlisted uniform shirt, sat at his station in front of his keyboard, surrounded by various high-tech electronic gadgets.

  Something wasn't quite right. He made a note on his legal pad, then whipped off his earphones.

  "Lieutenant," he said, still sitting at his duty station. He motioned to the watch officer. "Something is strange about this."

  Lie
utenant Doug Vandergrift strode toward him, wearing faded officer's wash khakis and a blue "USS Harry S. Truman" ball cap. "Watcha got, Petty Officer?"

  "We've copied this message on frequency 487 MH. It's been repeated four times over the last hour, sir." Whitlow handed Vandergrift the written transcript of the strange message.

  "Hmm." Vandergrift took a swig from a white coffee mug with the ship's popular, unofficial motto, "Give 'Em Hell, Harry," imprinted on the side. "Play that back."

  "Aye, sir." Whitlow punched the rewind button, then the play button.

  A voice on the tape said, "Oscar India Golf. Repeat, Oscar India Golf."

  "Any planes doing radio checks this morning?"

  "That many times?" Whitlow met Vandergrift's eyes. "At established intervals?"

  The lieutenant took another swig of coffee, still looking puzzled. "Message all squadron leaders. From radio room. Please report any radio checks this AM using the sephamore call sign 'Oscar India Golf.' "

  "Aye, sir."

  "Meanwhile, I'm calling in intel on this one."

  "Probably a good idea, sir."

  CHAPTER 15

  Officer's Country

  (Officer's berthing area)

  USS Harry S. Truman

  Western Mediterranean

  Are you sure?" Lieutenant Commander Mohammed "Mo" Quasay said, looking at the younger officer, a fellow naval aviator, who had just burst excitedly into his stateroom.

  "I heard it myself," Lieutenant Hosni Alhad said. "I was monitoring portable radio earlier this morning. Not only that, but look at this." He handed Quasay the message from the radio room.

  1. Please report any use of sephamore call sign "Oscar India Golf" by any U.S. Navy aircraft stationed aboard USS Harry S. Truman.

  2. Radio room reports interception of such message from unidentified sources at regular intervals this morning.