The Gargoyle Trilogy

Chapter 4

Morgan left the seventh floor and headed to his desk down in the Analysis Branch. Once there, he set his World War 2 Victory-style coffee mug under his desktop Nespresso machine and made his first cup of the morning. Symbols of his Navy career adorned his mug. On one side, a surface warfare pin, and ‘Gargoyle’. On the other, the emblem of PHIBRON Eight and his old N2 office code. He drank it black, no sugar. After the first sip, he turned to his computer monitor. He checked his email and seeing there was nothing needing immediate attention, opened his Automatic Identification System, or AIS, program. AIS, via on board radio transponders, tracked ships anywhere on the Earth, if the transponder worked properly.

There has to be a pattern, Morgan thought as he looked at the hundreds of ship icons crossing his screen.

There has to be a patternHe adjusted the display to focus on the West African coast. If those weapons came via ship, this would be the most logical place to come ashore as it is closest to the Malian boarder. After a few minutes of looking, however, Morgan came to the realization that he needed some assistance. He took a fresh sip of his coffee, reached for his desk phone, and pushed one of the speed dial buttons. After a couple of rings, a male voice answered.

“Cyber Intelligence, this is Lloyd.”

“Good morning, Lloyd. Bob Morgan here.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Quick question, how much AIS information do we record?”

“We usually keep six months or so on hand, and we archive a year’s worth.”

“So, we have enough for a trend analysis.”

“Sure. What do you have in mind?”

“Swing by my desk and I’ll give you the rundown. I received some tasking from the DDI, and I could use some help.”

“Sure. On my way.”

A few minutes later, a tall gentleman with salt and pepper colored curly hair and round wire-framed glasses appeared at Morgan’s desk. Morgan and Lloyd Decker had worked together before on the North Korea operation, and now he was Morgan’s go-to-guy on all things computer related.

“Damn, Bob! Never understood why’s your desk all the way back in the corner?”

“I like it back here. It’s private. Keeps people at arm’s length.”

“Fair enough, what can I do for you?”

“Some heavy weapons made their way to Jama’a Nusrat ul-Islam wa al-Muslimin forces in Mali. My working theory is they came via ship from various points of origin then made their way inland, possibly by barge up the River Gambie, then overland through Senegal and into Mali. What I need is an analysis of the past twelve months or so of AIS data showing any deviation from the normal merchant traffic patterns in and around the area.”

“Yeah, I can do that. Have an area in mind?”

Morgan passed Lloyd a series of latitudes and longitudes to narrow the search area into something more realistic.

“When do you think you can have this ready?” asked Morgan.

“Will twenty four hours from now work?”

“That’ll work. Owe you one, Lloyd.”

“Actually, you owe me about 512,” Lloyd said. “But who’s counting?” He smiled and turned back towards his office.

With the work on how now underway, it was time to begin figuring out who might be able to pull off such a task. Morgan popped his ear buds into his ears and while listening to one of the works of John Williams began researching shipping firms with fleets large enough to move bulky cargo, yet small enough that smuggling weapons might be financially attractive. Companies like A.P. Moller-Maersk Group, Hapag-Lloyd, and Evergreen did not need the additional income gunrunning brought, while firms like Pt Salam Pacific Indonesia Lines did not have the numbers to hide smuggling behind its legitimate shipping efforts.

Later in the morning, Morgan heard a knock on the side of his cubicle. He paused his music, looked up, and saw Clint Peters standing there.

“Can I bum a cup of coffee from you?” Peters held out an empty CIA-branded coffee mug.

“Sure.” Morgan grabbed the mug.

As the Nespresso machine filled the cup, Morgan turned to his friend and boss.

“You here to talk, or indulge in my superior brew?”

“Both, the coffee in the cafeteria is like the swill my ex-wife used to make, and we haven’t had a chance to talk since you returned from the Ohio. How are you doing?”

Ohio“The mission went fine at my level, but one of my team came within inches of losing proper use of his left arm due to the knife attack by a crew member I missed. The guy’s blade came close to the tendons.”

“Not your fault, Bob.”

“Tell that to Stone.”

“Stone is Stone. You need to put that behind you and concentrate on the now. And I have some news that will help with that.”

“Oh?”

“The documents you recovered from the Kobiashi Maru may shed some additional light on what’s going on in Mali. The ship was the property of RDS Shipping, a company based out of Copenhagen with offices in the US, London, and Singapore. The ship’s logs showed that while the property of RDS, she made several voyages to the West African coast. Conversations with Captain Sato, who is quite talkative since you snagged him, mentioned picking up several large cargos he subsequently dropped off in West Africa. This was all before the ship was bought by that North Korean shell company you uncovered for their use.”

Kobiashi Maru“Indeed. RDS is one of firms I have my eye on. Lloyd Decker is working an analysis of AIS data to check for any anomalies. Anyone running the company’s financials?”

“Should have an analysis in the next day or two.”

“Lloyd’s analysis is expected tomorrow as well.”

“Thanks for the coffee, Bob,” Peters said as he walked away from Morgan’s desk.

Morgan kept working until the end of the day with a list of potential firms locked up in his safe as he prepared to leave for the day. He left his navy blazer hanging on a hook in his office and slipped on his green U.S. Navy CWU-36P flight jacket, which was covered in patches reflecting his time on active duty before heading out to the parking lot.

Morgan drove his Corvette Grand Sport down Virginia Route 123 away from Langley and towards his home in Burke, Virginia. Looking at the traffic display on his after-market Panasonic infotainment system, he saw patches of yellow and orange indicating the flow of traffic, or lack thereof.

Who the hell are all these people, and why are they all in my way?!

Who the hell are all these people, and why are they all in my wayFinally, he saw his street coming up and slid to his assigned parking spot in front of his condominium. He slipped his everyday carry Beretta Nano out of the car’s center console and into his Alien Gear inside-the waistband holster before heading to his front door.

After checking his mailbox for snail mail, Morgan unlocked the door and stepped inside. One thing he learned from his ex was how to decorate. His living room was minimally decorated in a 1920s art deco style while the kitchen, which was open to the living room, had wood cabinets with nickel pulls, green granite countertops, and stainless-steel appliances. He proceeded to his home office to check email and social media sites on his personal computer. As he sat behind his desk, he admired the nautical themed office he assembled. Behind him a brass ship’s clock, which chimes the bells of the watch, and a matching barometer hung on the wall. Along another wall hung Morgan’s Shellback, Bluenose, and Order of the Ditch certificates for sailing over or through the Equator, Arctic Circle, and Suez Canal, respectively. Other mementoes of his time in the service either hung on the walls or sat on his bookshelves and desk.

That’s one thing about my job at the Agency, there are no souvenirs of my travels.

That’s one thing about my job at the Agency, there are no souvenirs of my travelsMorgan headed to the kitchen to put some dinner together. He pulled some leftover tempeh and broccoli and a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, sat on his couch, and turned on his 65 inch, 4K Sony television. He watched the evening news as he ate his dinner. Morgan’s diet turned more towards plant-based proteins since his parents passed away from a combination of heart disease and complications from type 2 diabetes. He still loved the occasional steak, especially the wagu New York strip from BLT Steak in the District, or a bacon cheeseburger, but not as often as he used to.

Morgan’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw who it was.

Christ, Julie. What the hell does she want?

Christ, Julie. What the hell does she wantHe let the call go to voice mail. No one interrupts a SWO while he’s eating, unless the ship’s on fire or under attack.

Morgan cleaned up his dinner dishes and headed up to his bedroom. As he changed out of his work clothes, he looked at himself in a full-length mirror. Not bad for a guy in his mid-thirties. Three things stood out in the reflection of Morgan’s somewhat lanky five foot ten inch frame; first were the scars on the left side of his face where his eye used to be, with the second and third being his two tattoos: the octopus emblem of the Special Executive for Counter Intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion (better known as S.P.E.C.T.R.E.) on his upper left arm, and the stylized eagle emblem of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division (better known as S.H.I.E.L.D.) on his upper right arm. Both tattoos reflected his love of both the classic James Bond films and the modern Marvel films. He put on a t-shirt and sweatpants and played Julie’s message.

“Hi Bob, its Julie. I’m lonely, could you please come over? I miss you, baby! Call me. Bye!”

“Ha! Fat chance! I’m not that desperate,” Morgan said aloud.

After reading a few more chapters in Ian Toll’s amazing book Six Frigates while relaxing to one of his favorite musical pieces, Jerry Goldsmith’s score to Star Trek: The Motion Picture, Morgan went back to his bedroom. He stripped off his t-shirt and sweatpants, climbed into bed, and drew up the covers. Shutting off the light on his nightstand, Morgan switched on his white noise generator. After years in the Navy, he needed some background noise to sleep. On board a ship, if it was silent, something was wrong. Once the lights were out and the white noise started, Morgan immediately surrendered to sleep.

Six FrigatesStar Trek: The Motion Picture