The Cobra Identity by Frank Perry
and ran over to them, while leaning forward. “Hello! I’m Lt. Paul Johnson. I’ll be traveling with you along with four NCOs aboard. We have weapons locked aboard, but we won’t open the locker unless necessary. Let me help you board.”
Rachael was wearing a skirt and Brennan had a business suit. Both were awkward climbing to the deck. Once aboard, the crew chief helped them strap into the “couch,” simple canvas seats. Once in place, the immense engines accelerated and the aircraft made a vertical takeoff, banking to the right as they gained altitude over Miami rooftops. It was exhilarating. The Jayhawk has two gas turbines producing about 2000 horsepower each. Flying at three thousand feet with the door open, they had an amazing view of The Everglades below. The flight lasted forty minutes.
Port Charlotte
En route to the landing zone, Lt. Johnson was on the radio coordinating with the Charlotte County Sheriff’s office. They were directed to the marina parking lot at “Fisherman’s Village” at Punta Gorda for landing. Hurricane “Charlie” had destroyed the marina in 2004 and the parking lot was still empty.
They touched down and the pilots shut off fuel to the engines. It took more than a minute for the engine noise and rotors to stop. As they stepped down, A large officer approached. “Hi, I’m Sheriff Glen Kowalczyk.” After introductions, he continued, “The Harbormaster logged Destiny into port just after midnight.” He had the address of the owner. While he was discussing details with Brennan, Rachael stepped away to make some calls from her mobile phone. She informed her assistant about the status so far and asked him to contact NSA for domestic support involving cellphone and email traffic. The call took about three minutes.
She rejoined the team. “Sorry, I had to check in.”
Brennan remarked, “No problem Rachael, the Sheriff and his deputies are going to take us to the owner’s house. He came to port about nine hours ago.”
The Coast Guard aircrew stayed with their aircraft. The rest of the “Coasties,” led by Lt. Johnson, fit into the two deputy’s cars and the others went with Sheriff Kowalczyk. The caravan drove north up the Tamiami Trail over an expansive bridge across the Peace River. Kowalczyk explained that Destiny was birthed up the Myakka River and the owner lived in Murdock, around six miles away from the landing sight.
The trip to Captain Thomas’s house took about ten minutes. Located on a narrow crushed-shell covered road, it was a small single story structure. It was about ten o’clock in the morning as they parked along the road in front. Mrs. Thomas was a vigilant woman, living alone most of the time and had seen the cars approaching. She felt apprehension as the Sheriff and Brennan walked to the door. They were going to knock when she answered the door.
Kowalczyk asked, “Hello, ma’am. Is this the Thomas residence?”
“Yes. Is there a problem? Is this about the divorce?”
Sheriff K responded, “No ma’am. These folks are with the Government and would like to talk to Captain Thomas.”
“Oh dear. Ah, he hasn’t been staying here. He’s been on his boat for a couple of months now. He called me last night that he would be at the dock early this morning. So, he should be there by now. Is there something wrong?”
“We don’t know for sure, ma’am. We just need to talk to him.”
She gave them directions to the dock, about five minutes away. One of the deputies stayed with Mrs. Thomas to get her information, while the others drove to an old pier down a dirt road. As they got closer, they could see flashing lights in the distance and smoke rising.
Loose Ends
Shortly after midnight that morning, the dive boat made a brief stop at the Punta Gorda Marina where Majiid was waiting. It touched the dock momentarily as he jumped aboard. Without a word, the driver turned due west, headed for the mouth of the Myakka River. They were less than an hour behind Destiny, but traveling three times faster. When they caught up, Destiny had arrived at its pier a few minutes before and the crew was busy securing equipment on deck. With hurricane damage, the commercial pier at Port Charlotte needed replacement, and Destiny was temporarily moored three miles up the river. It was the only boat using the pier, and was accessible from a one-lane dirt road leading to the highway.
As the small boat approached, Thomas went to the port side and received the bowline thrown by one of the dark men in a wetsuit, who said nothing. Over his shoulder, Thomas yelled to the other crewmen, “Boys, It looks like the balance of our money just arrived. We’re all goin’ to be happy men tonight!”
Majiid looked up and smiled as he climbed over the ship’s gunwale onto the fishing deck. Some of the crew was surprised. They looked more Middle Eastern than Latin, but the money would be good, regardless of its origin. Majiid stumbled after stepping down onto the deck. He hated boats of any size. The two other men in the boat climbed aboard and stood behind him as he congratulated the crew. “Captain, we appreciate what you have done to get our cargo here safely. You have earned your pay, and I have an envelope of U.S. dollars as agreed.”
That said, he opened his overcoat and pulled out a plump envelope and handed it to Thomas. The crewmen were typical fishing hands with little education or motivation. Their only requirement was having enough money ashore to survive between fishing trips. Money was always gone before shipping out, so the prospect of an entire year’s income in one payment was overwhelming. Each had his fantasies about their great fortune and crowded around the Captain as he opened the envelope. Then the killing started.
The two men with Majiid pulled handguns while the crew was distracted. They had moved to opposite positions, blocking any escape. They shot fast, emptying several magazines into the crew, who tried to run, screaming in agony. Two tried jumping over the starboard side toward the pier, but were wounded and sluggish as the two gunmen walked behind shooting them several more times. They were all moaning and crawling on deck as the gunmen reloaded for a final time. They steadied their aim and fired for vital areas in the head and heart. Ned Thomas and Jim Cooper held up their hands defensively, pleading as Majiid calmly finished the job started by his accomplices, shooting both of them. Most were not clinically dead, but could not survive much longer.
After the shooting stopped, the killers lowered the buoy into their boat for disposal elsewhere in the murky river. They then untied one of the ship’s fifty-gallon drums of reserve diesel fuel, removed the filler cap, and pushed it over onto the deck. The fuel gurgled and spread across the deck soaking the men who were dying. Majiid lit the envelope of blank paper on fire and threw it onto the spreading fuel as they jumped into the small boat. Diesel fuel is difficult to ignite, but burns intensely, once it starts. As they motored away, there was an explosion when another fuel barrel ignited. There would be more explosions as the fire intensified and reached the ship’s main tanks. More loose ends were now resolved.
To Washington
The Federal team and Sheriff arrived when the hulk was nothing more than a shell burned to the waterline. What remained of the hull barely floated the engine and machinery that fell as the deck disintegrated. There was no way to know if anyone had been aboard when it burned. The sheriff radioed his deputies to see if Mrs. Thomas knew who was aboard as crewmen. They would need to question everyone who had been on the boat. There were several old pickup trucks parked near the pier. Everyone was grave. Brennan called Rachael aside.
“Rachael, I don’t know if it’s related, but there was one more thing JJ learned from the Kravchenko kid. There was an Arab-looking guy on the ship who left before we got there.”
At this point, there was nothing more to accomplish at the boat. Sherriff K would try to locate any crewmen who had gone ashore, but this seemed doubtful. Rachael needed to return to DC and start working with the other agencies. She asked the Sheriff if he could have someone drive her to MacDill AFB, near Tampa, and he offered to take her.
En route to MacDill, Headquarters of Special Operations Command (SOCOM), Rachael used her cellphone to call her office to arrange a flight to DC
as soon as possible and to arrange a meeting with her counterparts at NSA, CIA, FBI and National Security Advisor.
Arriving at MacDill, the Sheriff was greeted by the Marine Guards who were all business. The SOCOM Commander, General Robert P. Gardner, USMC, had cleared their entry onto the base, complete with an escort to the flight line. The Sheriff fell into line behind a HMMWV with siren and lights as they sped along streets marked 25 MPH, at over sixty. It took a few minutes to reach the tarmac and continue speeding toward a line of aircraft. When they stopped, Rachael was surprised to see only fighter aircraft. As she stepped out of the car, an Air Force Captain approached asking, “Hello, are you Ms. Aston?”
“Yes. Yes that’s me.” She was getting more apprehensive by the second.
Holding out his hand, he said, “Scott Richards, ma’am. Do you have any luggage? I can carry some behind the rear seat.”
“Rear seat? Ah, no. My things are at the FBI building in Miami!”
“Sorry ma’am. We’re not going that direction. My orders are to get you to Washington -- fast.”
”Yes, I know, but I didn’t think that included flying in one of these.”
“Fastest way I know to get there, ma’am. Although it’ll be unusual having someone dressed like you in the
Rachael was wearing a skirt and Brennan had a business suit. Both were awkward climbing to the deck. Once aboard, the crew chief helped them strap into the “couch,” simple canvas seats. Once in place, the immense engines accelerated and the aircraft made a vertical takeoff, banking to the right as they gained altitude over Miami rooftops. It was exhilarating. The Jayhawk has two gas turbines producing about 2000 horsepower each. Flying at three thousand feet with the door open, they had an amazing view of The Everglades below. The flight lasted forty minutes.
Port Charlotte
En route to the landing zone, Lt. Johnson was on the radio coordinating with the Charlotte County Sheriff’s office. They were directed to the marina parking lot at “Fisherman’s Village” at Punta Gorda for landing. Hurricane “Charlie” had destroyed the marina in 2004 and the parking lot was still empty.
They touched down and the pilots shut off fuel to the engines. It took more than a minute for the engine noise and rotors to stop. As they stepped down, A large officer approached. “Hi, I’m Sheriff Glen Kowalczyk.” After introductions, he continued, “The Harbormaster logged Destiny into port just after midnight.” He had the address of the owner. While he was discussing details with Brennan, Rachael stepped away to make some calls from her mobile phone. She informed her assistant about the status so far and asked him to contact NSA for domestic support involving cellphone and email traffic. The call took about three minutes.
She rejoined the team. “Sorry, I had to check in.”
Brennan remarked, “No problem Rachael, the Sheriff and his deputies are going to take us to the owner’s house. He came to port about nine hours ago.”
The Coast Guard aircrew stayed with their aircraft. The rest of the “Coasties,” led by Lt. Johnson, fit into the two deputy’s cars and the others went with Sheriff Kowalczyk. The caravan drove north up the Tamiami Trail over an expansive bridge across the Peace River. Kowalczyk explained that Destiny was birthed up the Myakka River and the owner lived in Murdock, around six miles away from the landing sight.
The trip to Captain Thomas’s house took about ten minutes. Located on a narrow crushed-shell covered road, it was a small single story structure. It was about ten o’clock in the morning as they parked along the road in front. Mrs. Thomas was a vigilant woman, living alone most of the time and had seen the cars approaching. She felt apprehension as the Sheriff and Brennan walked to the door. They were going to knock when she answered the door.
Kowalczyk asked, “Hello, ma’am. Is this the Thomas residence?”
“Yes. Is there a problem? Is this about the divorce?”
Sheriff K responded, “No ma’am. These folks are with the Government and would like to talk to Captain Thomas.”
“Oh dear. Ah, he hasn’t been staying here. He’s been on his boat for a couple of months now. He called me last night that he would be at the dock early this morning. So, he should be there by now. Is there something wrong?”
“We don’t know for sure, ma’am. We just need to talk to him.”
She gave them directions to the dock, about five minutes away. One of the deputies stayed with Mrs. Thomas to get her information, while the others drove to an old pier down a dirt road. As they got closer, they could see flashing lights in the distance and smoke rising.
Loose Ends
Shortly after midnight that morning, the dive boat made a brief stop at the Punta Gorda Marina where Majiid was waiting. It touched the dock momentarily as he jumped aboard. Without a word, the driver turned due west, headed for the mouth of the Myakka River. They were less than an hour behind Destiny, but traveling three times faster. When they caught up, Destiny had arrived at its pier a few minutes before and the crew was busy securing equipment on deck. With hurricane damage, the commercial pier at Port Charlotte needed replacement, and Destiny was temporarily moored three miles up the river. It was the only boat using the pier, and was accessible from a one-lane dirt road leading to the highway.
As the small boat approached, Thomas went to the port side and received the bowline thrown by one of the dark men in a wetsuit, who said nothing. Over his shoulder, Thomas yelled to the other crewmen, “Boys, It looks like the balance of our money just arrived. We’re all goin’ to be happy men tonight!”
Majiid looked up and smiled as he climbed over the ship’s gunwale onto the fishing deck. Some of the crew was surprised. They looked more Middle Eastern than Latin, but the money would be good, regardless of its origin. Majiid stumbled after stepping down onto the deck. He hated boats of any size. The two other men in the boat climbed aboard and stood behind him as he congratulated the crew. “Captain, we appreciate what you have done to get our cargo here safely. You have earned your pay, and I have an envelope of U.S. dollars as agreed.”
That said, he opened his overcoat and pulled out a plump envelope and handed it to Thomas. The crewmen were typical fishing hands with little education or motivation. Their only requirement was having enough money ashore to survive between fishing trips. Money was always gone before shipping out, so the prospect of an entire year’s income in one payment was overwhelming. Each had his fantasies about their great fortune and crowded around the Captain as he opened the envelope. Then the killing started.
The two men with Majiid pulled handguns while the crew was distracted. They had moved to opposite positions, blocking any escape. They shot fast, emptying several magazines into the crew, who tried to run, screaming in agony. Two tried jumping over the starboard side toward the pier, but were wounded and sluggish as the two gunmen walked behind shooting them several more times. They were all moaning and crawling on deck as the gunmen reloaded for a final time. They steadied their aim and fired for vital areas in the head and heart. Ned Thomas and Jim Cooper held up their hands defensively, pleading as Majiid calmly finished the job started by his accomplices, shooting both of them. Most were not clinically dead, but could not survive much longer.
After the shooting stopped, the killers lowered the buoy into their boat for disposal elsewhere in the murky river. They then untied one of the ship’s fifty-gallon drums of reserve diesel fuel, removed the filler cap, and pushed it over onto the deck. The fuel gurgled and spread across the deck soaking the men who were dying. Majiid lit the envelope of blank paper on fire and threw it onto the spreading fuel as they jumped into the small boat. Diesel fuel is difficult to ignite, but burns intensely, once it starts. As they motored away, there was an explosion when another fuel barrel ignited. There would be more explosions as the fire intensified and reached the ship’s main tanks. More loose ends were now resolved.
To Washington
The Federal team and Sheriff arrived when the hulk was nothing more than a shell burned to the waterline. What remained of the hull barely floated the engine and machinery that fell as the deck disintegrated. There was no way to know if anyone had been aboard when it burned. The sheriff radioed his deputies to see if Mrs. Thomas knew who was aboard as crewmen. They would need to question everyone who had been on the boat. There were several old pickup trucks parked near the pier. Everyone was grave. Brennan called Rachael aside.
“Rachael, I don’t know if it’s related, but there was one more thing JJ learned from the Kravchenko kid. There was an Arab-looking guy on the ship who left before we got there.”
At this point, there was nothing more to accomplish at the boat. Sherriff K would try to locate any crewmen who had gone ashore, but this seemed doubtful. Rachael needed to return to DC and start working with the other agencies. She asked the Sheriff if he could have someone drive her to MacDill AFB, near Tampa, and he offered to take her.
En route to MacDill, Headquarters of Special Operations Command (SOCOM), Rachael used her cellphone to call her office to arrange a flight to DC
Arriving at MacDill, the Sheriff was greeted by the Marine Guards who were all business. The SOCOM Commander, General Robert P. Gardner, USMC, had cleared their entry onto the base, complete with an escort to the flight line. The Sheriff fell into line behind a HMMWV with siren and lights as they sped along streets marked 25 MPH, at over sixty. It took a few minutes to reach the tarmac and continue speeding toward a line of aircraft. When they stopped, Rachael was surprised to see only fighter aircraft. As she stepped out of the car, an Air Force Captain approached asking, “Hello, are you Ms. Aston?”
“Yes. Yes that’s me.” She was getting more apprehensive by the second.
Holding out his hand, he said, “Scott Richards, ma’am. Do you have any luggage? I can carry some behind the rear seat.”
“Rear seat? Ah, no. My things are at the FBI building in Miami!”
“Sorry ma’am. We’re not going that direction. My orders are to get you to Washington -- fast.”
”Yes, I know, but I didn’t think that included flying in one of these.”
“Fastest way I know to get there, ma’am. Although it’ll be unusual having someone dressed like you in the