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On Aug. 12, FRONTLINE producer Martin Smith, his co-producer Marcela Gaviria, and cameraman Scott Anger set out on a two-month journey that will take them from London to the Persian Gulf to Pakistan and Afghanistan in an effort to find out what has become of Osama bin Laden's terrorist network, Al Qaeda, since the U.S. launched its war on terrorism. In the weeks ahead, we'll be posting regular email dispatches from Smith and Gaviria as they report back to us on their progress, offering an unprecedented behind-the-scenes perspective on a FRONTLINE documentary in the making. Smith's report will air in mid-November. | |||||||||||||||||||
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"HMCS Algonquin"
We get a call from the lobby around 1 a.m., just as I am settling in with a movie (some British thing with vaguely familiar faces I can't put names to). By 2 a.m. we've swung by the airport, recovered my bag, and set out in two mini-vans for a location that -- for security reasons -- our hosts tell us they can't reveal. We're on our way to board a Canadian destroyer -- the HMCS (Her Majesty's Canadian Ship) Algonquin -- patrolling the area for possible terrorists. We're riding with a couple of personable women from the Canadian Navy who've come out to the Gulf to interview sailors requesting reassignments. The driver is French Canadian. On the radio is Steely Dan. At a rest stop, we discover the second van is full of a sullen group of men, also sailors, being ferried out to ship. These guys are dour. We speed on. I watch the dunes go by. Marcela points out a fence running along the highway and tells me it's to keep camels off the road. I don't know if she's kidding. Two and a half hours later we pull into the port. It's 4:30 a.m. and we are waiting again for an Indian-operated tug boat that's not yet ready to ferry us out to the ship. I'm wide awake all night. We're told it will take two and half hours to reach the destroyer. I arrive feeling slightly sea sick and climb aboard up a 10-foot ladder while a couple dozen expressionless Canadian sailors stare at their new guests. When Scott turns the camera on me I think how ridiculous we look. They've got to be wondering whether this is a story about some self-involved American TV correspondent and his travels, or about them. These guys have been out sailing in suffocating heat and humidity for months, bored out of their minds, tired, wanting to go home. Are they now just the backdrop for some New York asshole's TV adventure? We go through a safety briefing which my failing brain is unable to take in. I figure I'll just follow the rest of them if anything seems to be going wrong. Eventually I'm shown down a few ladders and steered to a bunk, No. 88, in what's called "13 Mess." I strip down and then struggle to hoist my heavy body up to the third level without stepping on the sailors sleeping below. But I do manage to bang my head, bruise my right arm, and strain my back in a final spasm of lifting, grunting, and twisting. It's a graceful finale, and I wonder who's watching. I turn onto my back. The ship rocks in the waves. I stare at a ceiling 18 inches from my nose, listen to the sailor breathing in the adjacent row of bunks, and think about the Russian submarine Kursk.
I awake at around 2 p.m., negotiate the showers and bathroom, and fall into the ward room for a late lunch. Late that first afternoon we get word that the ship is hailing a Chinese fishing boat sailing from Aden, Yemen, to Dubai in the U.A.E. This port of departure and port of destination is what the sailors on the bridge call a tripwire -- enough to justify a boarding by a team of about 8 to 10 men. Scott and I are going to go along with them in a small Zodiac called a RHIB (Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat). We are instructed to get into blue jump suits, boots, and hats marked NAVY. It's hot out and we're told to drink constantly to stay hydrated. Up the rope ladder and into the Chinese boat and we've been transported to a floating Shanghai slum. The deck is strewn with pipes, scrap metal, ropes, and litter, and given that much of the wood planking is rotting and loose, it's hard to find a solid footing even if your feet find the deck. We walk up a rusted ladder to the foredeck and enter the eating area. In the dining room, cockroaches are crawling everywhere and there are two-inch long waterbugs. Inside the living quarters Leading Seaman and ex-military policeman Sean Gillis inspects with his assault rifle at the ready. He kicks open the doors and then, crouching, moves quickly, whirling about pointing into every corner, into each bunk, and behind the doors. The crew has gathered on the bow, so all that scamper out are the roaches. I look around for rats. Al Qaeda is far from my mind. Long after dark we return to the mother ship. The Canadian sailors have combed through the passports of the 14 Chinese aboard. Through the captain, who speaks a little broken English, the Canadians record that the trawler is on its way to Dubai for its annual refitting. But the truth is this boat has seen few repairs in 10 years. And it doesn't smell like fish. Plus, the winches that haul the nets are rusted solid. The hold is empty and the storage area refrigerators ceased functioning long ago. Scott and I wonder if these guys are just refugees looking for a home. In any case, they are cleared of harboring terrorists. Thus comes to an end the Algonquin's 49th boarding. < (previous dispatch) · (next dispatch) >
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