The Oceanic Princess (Brice Bannon Seacoast Adventure Book 2)

by David DeLee

  Blind rage burned inside Bannon, brighter and hotter than the fires raging on the Oceanic Princess.

  Zayd went about the business of loading a second missile into the holding chamber of the gun. Done with that, she limped over to the firing console and again began keying data into the keyboard.

  Bannon fired at the computer. He hit it. The screen exploded in a geyser of sparks and smoke.

  Zayd jumped away and turned toward him, a look of horror on her face. “No!”

  He didn’t know if that was enough to disable the gun, so he lined the Beretta’s forward sight on Zayd’s forehead.

  About to pull the trigger a second time, Bridget shot him, hitting him in the shoulder. The impact forced Bannon back a step. He clamped a hand to his bloody shoulder and did his best to ignore the pain. He swung the Beretta in Bridget’s direction. She ducked. Faaid body slammed him, spoiling his shot and sending them both toward the rear gunwale where they both nearly tumbled out of the boat.

  Bridget shoved the throttle forward. “Fire again!” she shouted at Zayd. “Fire again!”

  The boat leaped, skimming over the water on a collision course with the flank of the Princess.

  Faaid shoved Bannon back, arching his back over the gunwale, ocean spray soaking his face. The terrorist punched Bannon in his wound. Bannon howled in pain. He threw a right hook, using the butt of his Beretta to coldcock him. Faaid ducked and twisted, avoiding the blow.

  As they struggled, Faaid shouted, “Fire again! Blow that ship apart!”

  Bannon drove a fist into Faaid’s gut, driving him back. Faaid raised his gun, but Bannon charged. He slapped Faaid’s gun hand away, using his injured arm—a burning pain shot through his shoulder—then swung the Beretta, gun butt first, raking across Faaid’s jaw. The man cried out and stumbled to the left.

  Bannon charged toward Bridget, her hands gripped tightly on the wheel. She spun it, sending the boat into a sharp turn. In the bow, Zayd grabbed for the console. Her hands slipped. She stumbled toward the gunwale, grabbing the railing, and saving herself from being pitched over the rail.

  The Princess was crippled. Another shot would destroy her.

  Bannon grabbed Bridget’s arm, tried to pull her from the pilot’s berth. She pushed him away and turned the boat to the right, putting them on a direct collision course with the Princess. They were so close now the ship’s shadow loomed over them. People lined the top deck. They looked down and pointed.

  Faaid grabbed Bannon from behind. Bannon shoved him back. The terrorist’s feet slipped out from under him. He landed on his ass and slipped across the wet deck, crashing into the corner.

  Zayd was back up at the computer console, entering data into the keyboard even though the screen was smashed. The railgun moved, repositioning, responding to her commands. The railgun was still in play.

  Bannon grabbed Bridget by the shoulder and ripped her away from the wheel. She stumbled to the side. He grabbed the wheel and swung it hard to the left. He thrust the throttle all the way forward. The Bowrider responded quickly. The bow raised and the backend fishtailed hard, leaving a deep, frothing wake behind them.

  He continued to spin the wheel to the left, putting the boat on a parallel course with the looming Princess—as the railgun with its target acquired continued to swivel toward the hull of the big cruise liner—Bannon pulled the throttle back to all stop.

  Behind him Faaid was getting back up on his feet, searching for his dropped gun. The sudden reduction in speed pitched him forward. He landed on his knees and slid forward like a baseball player sliding headfirst into second base. Bridget crashed into the space between the bridge console and the co-pilot’s seat, tumbled and fell to the deck.

  To keep them off balance, Bannon threw the throttle full forward.

  In the bow, Zayd stumbled as the boat leaped forward. Her injured knee collapsed under her. She plunged over the side as Bannon’s erratic piloting skimmed them across the cruise ship’s hull, tearing a rending gash into its side while Zayd’s body, caught between the fast-moving Bowrider and stationary ship’s hull, was ripped in two. Blood and gore painted the side of the cruiser liner as steel plates and fiberglass shredded, ripped, and tore. The slashing sound was like a thousand fingernails scratching across a hundred blackboards.

  Bannon turned away from the mess.

  Hung up on the peeled back metal plates where the missile had ripped through the hull and exposed the interior to the outside, the railgun boat hung at a severe angle. The boat’s twin Merc engines smoked, sputtered, and died.

  Bannon turned toward Faaid and Bridget. Faaid had regained his footing. With a bloody gash over one eye, he pointed his handgun at Bannon in a steady, two-handed grip.

  “You will not stop us,” he said as blood dripped along his scarred face.

  -----

  TARA STOOD AT THE top of a stairwell leading up from the midsection decks below. Bloody, tired, and disheveled—that was putting it mildly—she had an M16 strapped to her back and a Beretta weighing down the pocket of her oversized coveralls. Blood had soaked through the wrapping around her arm, and her arm ached. She kept finger-combing her hair from her face, disgusted by how matted and sticky it felt, and how badly she smelled like an overflowing toilet.

  Lights flickered, experiencing shorts and other power interruptions, but the emergency lights had kicked in so the hazy stairwell was at least well lit. She directed passengers coming up out past the pool, telling them to gather at the forward observation deck for further instructions. Mostly of them were doing their best to remain calm. Parents putting on brave faces for their children, who looked around wide-eyed and scared. Young ones were cradled in their mother’s arms, wailing inconsolably. Tara couldn’t blame them. Few of these passengers were injured. Most of them had been in areas away from where the missile struck and exploded.

  That wasn’t to say there weren’t injured. There were. A lot of them. Tara knew the cruise ship had two doctors and a team of nurses on board, and the crew were all first-aid trained, at least. The medical staff was as close to the blast site as they could get, performing triage.

  “This way,” Tara said repeatedly, directing passengers to a line of crew members waving them toward the starboard side where lifeboats were being loaded with the women, children, and wounded first.

  The line of passengers shuffled along the port side of the ship. A few stopped and were looking over the railing, something having caught their eye. The progression was backing up. Frustrated, Tara called, “Please, keep moving. We have a lot of—”

  Several of the gawkers gasped and pointed.

  Tara moved through the crowd and pushed her way to the railing. When she did, she gasped as well.

  The railgun boat was speeding straight at them at what looked like top speed, on a direct course to slam into the hull of the Oceanic Princess. Bannon was wrestling Bridget Barnes for control of the boat. Faaid was thrashing around like a fish on a deck. Zayd clutched her computer podium. It looked like she was trying to active the railgun, preparing to fire again.

  “Get away from the rail!” Tara shouted. “Move! Move!”

  Many of the passengers did as they were told, some pushing and shoving to get out of harm’s way, regardless of who they plowed through. Still others remained. Either too scared or too fascinated to turn away.

  Tara grasped the railing and watched. Bannon had gained control of the boat. She leaned over the railing. He jerked the throttle to stop then gunned it forward. The boat spun to the side at the last minute. But not before Safiyyah Zayd fell overboard and the boat skidded across the hull of the Princess, crushing the woman between the hulls.

  Several people pulled back at the sight, horrified.

  The railgun boat scraped across the hull. The bow lifted into the air as it caught and rode a peeled back section of steel plating. It jerked to a stop, hung up on the side of the ship.

  Faaid held a gun on Bannon. He said something, but it was impossible for her to hear. />
  Tara didn’t care. She pulled her Beretta and leaned awkwardly over the railing.

  -----

  FAAID AIMED HIS GUN at Bannon. “You will not stop us. This is where it ends, Commander.”

  “Finally, something we can agree on,” Bannon said. “But it’s not my end we’re talking about here.”

  Bridget Barnes backed away from the bridge. Her green eyes darted around. Bannon could see the wheels turning in her head. She was looking for a way to escape. She wasn’t the immediate threat. Faaid was. He’d deal with her later.

  “Unfortunately, Commander,” Faaid said. “I can only kill you once, though you deserve a thousand deaths for what you did to me.” He waved a hand vaguely at his scarred face.

  “You ask me,” Bannon taunted. “It’s an improvement.”

  Faaid tightened the grip on the gun. He’d just started to apply pressure on the trigger when a bullet pinged off the engine cowl and a quickly fired second shot struck him in the stomach. He clutched at his wound, staggering back.

  Bannon glanced upward to see who his benefactor was, knowing it would be one of two people.

  -----

  TARA FIRED TWO QUICK shots at Faaid. One round hit the terrorist in the gut. He staggered back and Bannon rushed at him after a quick look up at her.

  But it was Bridget Barnes who had Tara’s attention.

  The redheaded woman used the opportunity to climb through the opening from the bridge to the bow section of the boat. She reached the gunwale and pulled herself forward. Tara lost sight of her, unable to lean out far enough to see her without tumbling off the ship.

  But she didn’t need to see her to know what the woman was up to.

  She was going to climb into the cruise ship through the hole blasted into it. Her plan was probably to lose herself in the crowd. In the confusion, blend in with the passengers and secure a berth on a lifeboat.

  “Not gonna happen,” Tara vowed. She turned around and pushed through the crowd. The stairwell was jammed with passengers still streaming up from the darkened bowels of the ship. She fought past them, making her way down, determined to put an end to her tormentor once and for all.

  -----

  BANNON LOOKED UP THE massive wall that was the hull of the Oceanic Princess to see Tara leaning over the railing staring down at him, gun still in hand. From the corner of his eye he noticed Bridget scramble over the side of the boat, climbing up the ragged edge of the hole in the Princess.

  One problem at a time. He returned his attention to Faaid. He was leaning against the rear gunwale, holding his stomach, blood leaking through his fingers.

  Bannon advanced on him.

  Faaid looked around for a means of escape. From his expression, Bannon saw him even contemplate jumping overboard. Go ahead, Bannon thought. “Bleeding like that you’ll be shark food in a New York minute.”

  “Stay back,” Faaid said, his eyes dark with contempt.

  He raised the pistol still in his hand and squeezed off a shot. Bannon was already diving through the air at him. He tackled Faaid, driving him back against the gunwale behind them. The impact jarred the gun loose from his hand. It went spinning out over the side of the boat.

  Faaid landed a solid blow against Bannon’s kidney. Bannon grabbed him by the throat. Pain flared through his shoulder, but he held on and pummeled Faaid’s face with his closed fist. After more punches than were completely necessary, his own bullet wound stinging like crazy, Bannon dragged the semi-conscious terrorist up to the bow of the boat. There he grabbed a length of rope tied to the end of a rubber bumper. He used it to tie Faaid to the railgun.

  Done, he tugged on it to make sure it was secure.

  “What now?” Faaid said through a bloody lip and a half swollen shut eye. He’d lost a tooth and his front was soaked in blood. “Leave me here until you can turn me over to your authorities?”

  “Hardly.” Bannon stood over him, staring down. “You get to enjoy a long-standing maritime tradition. An honor you don’t deserve but seems fitting all the same.”

  “What?” Faaid spit out blood.

  “You get to be a sea captain that goes down with his ship.” Bannon squatted and got close to the mass murderer’s face. “And trust me, this time I’ll get it right.”

  Faaid’s eyes widened. He pulled frantically at his wrists bound to the railgun’s base. “You can’t!”

  Bannon retrieved the saucer gun from under the co-pilot’s console. With it in hand, he followed Bridget Barnes’ lead up the shredded hot metal and climbed into the bowels of the Oceanic Princess. Fires still raged behind him. Smoke fouled the air. Bannon climbed up a broken girder two decks higher than the wrecked railgun.

  “Wait,” Faaid cried out, panic in his voice. “This isn’t over.”

  “Oh, believe me, it is,” Bannon shouted back down. “Especially for you.”

  “No. Listen to me. This…this was simply a test. There’s more.”

  Bannon’s patience had run its course. “Tell it to the devil when you see him, Faaid. You and your damn railgun are going to the bottom of the ocean.”

  He aimed the saucer gun at the railgun boat’s fuel tanks.

  “No!” Faaid shouted. “You’re making a mistake! Ghaazi Alvi will…”

  The rest of what he had to say was lost to the sound of hot, spitting bullets from the crazy weapon Bannon fired and the large explosion that followed as the boat’s fuel tanks blew and a black, oily fireball roiled up into the sky.

  What was left of the railgun boat’s bow section, rocked by the explosion, slipped off its ragged perch and slid into the sea. It drifted away from the cruise ship, away from all the death and destruction it had caused, and slipped under the gentle waves of the Atlantic Ocean, taking Faaid’s dead and burned body along with it.

  Bannon watched until nothing was left, and then waited some more. When even the last random air bubbles had ceased popping up through the scattered debris, through the flaming black oil slick, only then did Bannon toss the saucer gun into the water and watched it sink, too.

  “It’s done, O’Neil. We won, son. We won.”

  Bannon turned and disappeared into the crippled Oceanic Princess. He wondered, was it enough?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  McMURPHY MOVED THROUGH THE lower decks of the cruise ship with a team of Oceanic Princess crew members, one of their nurses, and three passengers who refused to go topside and instead remained to help. Armed with a flashlight, a purser named Baker led them down and through the ship, getting them as close to the blast site as possible in their search for survivors.

  The lights flickered, more on than off, with bright white emergency lights illuminating the way. The haze grew into heavy smoke the deeper they went down and toward the stern. Along the way as they came across passengers, they were directed to make their way to the forward promenade to check in and wait for their lifeboat assignments. For those who were injured or too frightened or distraught to continue on their own, Baker assigned crewmates to accompany them.

  They passed the casino and stepped into the Tiamat Bar & Grill.

  U-shaped leather chairs were turned over and strewn about the place. Bar stools were tipped over and a flat screen TV behind the bar played a carousel video of beach pictures with palm trees and sailboats. A large crack ran through the screen and the images flickered erratically. The worse defilement to McMurphy were all the shattered booze bottles fallen from the glass shelves still backlit with electric blue light.

  “This way,” Baker said.

  He pushed through a door taking them into a large space that resembled a hotel lobby. There were comfortable looking club chairs and sofas around built-in cocktail tables. More padded seats surrounded large potted trees and a wide, sweeping staircase with open treads and enclosed in waist-high glass led up to the next deck.

  McMurphy looked up.

  “Passenger accommodations,” Baker explained.

  A hole had been blasted through the ceiling and the lobby�
�s far wall, exposing the cabins above. Many of the cabins were destroyed. Others were missing a segment of wall or floor so they were visible to the rescue team solemnly looking up.

  Here the ship was oppressively hot, and the smoke had grown so thick McMurphy’s eyes stung. From the floor he picked up several washcloths that had fallen from the cabins above, along with towels, blankets, pieces of beds, cabinets, and various wall decorations like sconces and pictures.

  He handed the washcloths around, placing his against his nose and mouth.

  According to Captain Herron, the missile had slammed into the Princess in a section aft of the engine and boiler rooms. The subsequent explosions after the initial blast had been the result of fuel tanks and overheated generators blowing up. The fire suppression system was top of the line, Herron assured McMurphy. The good news, the captain went on to say, if there could be any in such a situation, was the section that received the heaviest damage was the laundry area, the fresh water tank, and cargo holds, thus less populated areas and minimized the number of casualties.

  If we’re lucky, McMurphy groused, not feeling hopeful as he stared at the hole blown through the hull ahead of him. A steel girder lay at an angle. Around it, large sections of wall blasted into chucks littered the area along with piles of rubble and other debris. A fluorescent light fixture hung from the ceiling, one bulb still glowing, the other one sputtering in an attempt to stay lit and failing.

  He moved closer and gazed down at the gaping hole. He could see seven exposed decks across from them. He didn’t see any movement, but through the thick smoke that wasn’t a surprise. Several fires continue to burn.

  The others gathered around him. He looked at Baker. Through the washcloth held to his mouth, he said, “We should spread out.”

  Baker nodded when the nurse called out. “Look! I see someone.”

  McMurphy and Baker crowded around him and followed where he pointed through the hole two decks down.

  A figure was climbing up a section of girder. With all the smoke and McMurphy’s eyes tearing as bad as they were, it was hard to get a clear view of him. The man’s progress was slow. He was struggling and was only using one hand to pull himself up.