Plague Ship (Oregon Files 5)

“. . . and onto this ark Noah loaded his animals two by two.”

CHAPTER 1

BANDAR ABBAS, IRAN

PRESENT DAY

THE TIRED-LOOKING FREIGHTER HAD LAIN AT ANCHOR off the busy port of Bandar Abbas long enough to arouse the suspicion of the Iranian military. An armed patrol boat was dispatched from the nearby naval base and streaked across the shallow azure waters toward the five-hundred-plus-foot ship.

The vessel was named the Norego and carried a Panamanian registry, if the flag hanging from her jack staff was any indication. From the look of her, she had been converted to container duty after serving her life as a general cargo vessel. Growing up from her deck like branchless trees were five cargo booms, three forward and two aft. Around them were stacks of brightly colored containers piled to just below her bridge windows. Despite the large quantity of containers, she sat high in the water, with at least fifteen feet of red antifouling paint showing below her maximum-load line. Her hull was a uniform blue, but looked as though she hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in some time, while her upperworks were a mismatched shade of green. Her twin funnels were so darkened by soot that the original color was indeterminate. A trickle of smoke coiled from the stacks and hung over the ship in a pall.

Scaffolding of metal struts had been lowered over her fantail, and men in grease-smeared coveralls were working on the freighter’s rudder bearing.

As the patrol craft approached, the NCO acting as captain of the nimble boat raised a megaphone to his mouth. “Ahoy, Norego,” he said in Farsi. “Please be advised that we are going to board you.” Muhammad Ghami repeated his words in English, the international language of maritime trade.

A moment later, a grossly overweight man wearing a sweat-stained officer’s shirt appeared at the head of the gangway. He nodded to a subaltern, and the boarding stairs began to descend.

As they drew nearer, Ghami saw captain’s epaulets on the man’s shoulders and sourly wondered how a man of such rank could let himself go so badly. The Norego’s master carried a heavy gut that sagged ten inches over his belt. Under his white cap, his hair was greasy black with gray streaks, and his face was covered with stubble. He could only imagine where the owners of such a decrepit ship would find such a man to command her.

With one of his men standing behind the patrol boat’s .50 caliber machine gun, Ghami nodded for another sailor to tie the rigid-hulled inflatable to the gangway. Another sailor stood close by, an AK-47 slung across his shoulder. Ghami checked that the flap over his holster was secured and leapt onto the boarding stairs with his second-in-command at his heels. As he climbed, he observed the captain try to smooth his hair and straighten his filthy shirt. They were futile gestures.

Ghami reached the deck, noting that the plates were sprung in places and hadn’t seen paint in decades. Rust caked nearly every surface except for the shipping containers, which probably hadn’t been on board long enough for the crew’s lack of diligence to affect them. There were gaps in the railing that had been repaired with lengths of chain, and corrosion had eaten into the superstructure so much that it looked ready to collapse at any moment.

Hiding his disgust, Ghami snapped a crisp salute at the captain. The man scratched his ample stomach and made a vague gesture at the bill of his cap.

“Captain, I am Ensign Muhammad Ghami of the Iranian Navy. This is Seaman Khatahani.”

“Welcome aboard the Norego, Ensign,” the freighter’s master replied. “I am Captain Ernesto Esteban.”

His Spanish accent was so thick that Ghami had to go over each word in his head to make sure he understood. Esteban was a few inches taller than the Iranian sailor, but the extra weight he carried hunched his shoulders and curved his back so that he and Ghami appeared almost the same height. His eyes were dark and watery, and when he smiled to shake Ghami’s hand his teeth were yellowed and crooked. His breath smelled like curdled milk.

“What seems to be the trouble with your steering gear?”

Esteban cursed in Spanish. “The bearing froze up. Fourth time in a month. The cheap owners”—he spat—“won’t let me have it fixed in a shipyard so my men have to do. We should be under way by tonight, maybe in the morning.”

“And what is your cargo and destination?”

The captain slapped one of the shipping containers. “Empty boxes. They’re all the Norego is good for.”

“I don’t understand,” Ghami said.

“We’re transporting empty containers from Dubai to Hong Kong. Full containers get shipped in, unloaded, and pile up on the dock. We take them back to Hong Kong, where they are reloaded.”

That explained why the ship was riding so high in the water, Ghami thought. Empty containers weighed only a few tons each. “And what do you carry on your return trip here?”

“Barely enough to cover our costs,” Esteban said bitterly. “No one will insure us with anything more valuable than boxes of nothing.”

“I need to see your crew manifest, cargo manifest, and the ship’s registration.”

“Is there some kind of problem?” Esteban asked quickly.

“I will determine that after I have seen your papers,” Ghami said with enough menace to make certain the disgusting man complied. “Your vessel is deep in Iranian waters, and I am fully in my right to inspect every inch of this ship if I see fit.”

“No problema, señor,” Esteban said with oily smoothness. His grin was more grimace. “Why don’t we step out of this heat and into my office?”

Bandar Abbas sat tucked in the tightest curve of the Strait of Hormuz, the narrow entrance to the Persian Gulf. Summertime temperatures rarely dipped below a hundred and twenty during the day, and there was little wind. The metal decking beneath the men’s feet was quite literally hot enough to fry eggs.

“Lead the way,” Ghami said, and swept his hand toward the superstructure.