Target Lock

by James H. Cobb

  “I’ll discuss the matter with the gentleman, ma’am, and see what he has to say about it.”

  The Piskov was, in effect, a giant seagoing parking lot. She had been specially designed to carry her cargo preloaded onto semitrailer vans and flatbeds to expedite a rapid port turnaround. The open vehicle decks within her main hull were interconnected by ramps that permitted the cargo trailers to simply be driven aboard and spotted. Hence, the ship’s nomenclature of RO/RO (roll on/roll off).

  Peering forward from the open personnel hatch, Stone judged that this final phase of the ship clearing was going to be hell incarnate. The vehicle deck was a long, dimly lit steel cavern, the tightly packed ranks of semi-vans providing for a multitude of hiding places and point-blank ambush points for any hostiles that might be present.

  And there were hostiles present. The listening watch posted at the access hatches had reported hearing sounds of movement forward in the trailer bays. The pirate prizemaster and his team had been trapped belowdecks by the Marine onslaught. They were in there somewhere, waiting.

  Stone held out a hand, and one of the members of Bravo team passed him a loud hailer. Unsnapping his gas mask, Quillain aimed the mega phone through the hatch and held down the trigger switch. “Attention! Attention! This is Captain Stone Quillain of the United States Marine Corps. We have retaken this vessel. Your boats have been destroyed and the rest of your party has been taken prisoner. All deck hatches are locked and guarded. You cannot escape. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up. You will not be harmed. I say again: Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up. You will not be harmed.”

  “Think they’ll listen, sir?” the Bravo team leader asked.

  “Nope,” Stone resealed his mask. “Not even if they can understand what I’m saying. We’ll give ’em five minutes anyway.”

  The creeping numbers on Stone’s watch proved him right.

  “Well, I guess we’re going to have to go hunting,” Quillain said philosophically after the sixth minute had passed.

  “Should we call topside for more riot gas, sir?” the Bravo team leader inquired.

  Quillain shook his head. “Nope. This tub’s interior and cargo are not to be contaminated with a gas concentration unless absolutely necessary. Direct orders from the Lady.”

  “Christ! What’s she got against doing things easy?”

  “Generally, that gal has her reasons. Anyway, there’s still some tricks we can pull.” Stone keyed his throat mike. “All Dragon elements, this is Dragon Six. Stand by to go on night vision. Bravo Lead, you there?”

  “Bravo Lead here, Cap’n.”

  “You got anything that looks like a master power panel in that engine room?”

  “There’s what looks like one over in the auxiliary compartment, sir.”

  “Good. Then get over there and start pulling the breakers. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. On my way.”

  Stone lowered his nite-brite visor, switching the unit back on. “Get set, boys,” he murmured to the other four members of the fire team. “Vision up and light ’em.”

  Reaching up, he pinched a small gray plastic tube attached to his MOLLE harness. Even the best photomultiplier in the world required some light to function, and in moments the interior of the Piskov would become as dark as the lower levels of Mammoth Cave. However, the special chemical lumesticks the Marines were activating would provide more than enough brightness to permit the AI2 systems to function.

  The luminescence involved was also filtered to a portion of the spectrum not visible to the unaided human eye, but readily usable by the nite brite systems. The lumesticks would provide both vision and an instant IFF (identification friend or foe) reference for the Marines, while giving no aid to their enemies.

  The freighter’s interior lighting snapped off. To an observer not equipped with night vision, things went totally black, the darkness so dense that the hand literally couldn’t be seen in front of the face. The Marines, however, merely reverted to the familiar green-lit world of night vision.

  “Okay, Bravo Lead, that’s got it. Keep those lights out till we give you the word,” Quillain murmured. “Taylor, Smitty, you take the starboard side. You other two boys come with me. Able Team, you ready to go up there?”

  “This is Able,” the reply whispered back from the upper vehicle deck. “We’re set.”

  “Okay, everybody. Let’s go. Slow and easy now.”

  They moved out.

  Each step was a miniature military evolution in itself. Scan the environment for hostile activity. Plot movement. Make sure of your footing and verify there would be no random noise-producing contacts with the bulkhead to one side or the trailers on the other. Lift one boot, then ease it down again. Refresh situational awareness. Repeat.

  A random current of air would make a greater disturbance in its passage.

  One member of each fire team scanned the roof edge of the trailers and the shadowed gap between the trailer tops and the overhead. The other sank into a crouch, sweeping his gun barrels across the space beneath each trailer and between the axle assemblies. Whispered words over the squad link kept the search teams coordinated.

  Complicating each foot of movement was the network of steel cable and nylon strap tie-downs that bound the trailers to the decking, a thousand potential trips and falls for the individual who let his focus wander even for a moment.

  Slow, slow work, performed with nerves stretched piano-wire taut.

  A short distance on toward the bow, Stone and his party picked up signs of the others’ presence. Locks had been broken. Metal-strip customs seals had been twisted off trailer door latches, and the doors themselves stood open. At one point the looting had already begun. Plastic-wrapped bales had been offloaded from one trailer and stood stacked on the deck, ready to be carried topside. Stone’s probing hand disclosed an almost ethereal softness. Siberian sable furs, a small fortune’s worth.

  A battered, paper-stuffed clipboard sat atop the bales. Stone collected it. Squinting through his nite-brite visor, he made out the writing on the top sheet. Numbers. Neat computer-printed listings of trailer identification numbers and bill-of-lading cargo codes.

  Score! Stone unzipped his interceptor vest and stuffed the papers, clipboard and all, inside. Resecuring his armor, he gestured on.

  At the forward end of the vehicle deck, a half-spiral ramp climbed to the level above. Stone ordered a halt at the last trailer tier and the team went to cover, hunkering down behind the big tire trucks.

  “Team Able, report your situation,” Stone breathed into his mike

  “We’re at the head of the bay. We have the head of the ramp covered. No sign of hostiles.”

  Stone scowled inside his mask. “Same here. We got the bottom end of the ramp under observation. We’ve got no contact, either.”

  “You think we missed ’em, Cap’n?”

  “Christ, I hope not. Stand by, Able. Lieutenant Donovan, you by?”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “You got an English-speaking Russian back there?”

  “Acknowledged. I have the chief engineer with me.”

  “Ask him if there’s any way into the bow from the vehicle decks.”

  Impatiently, Stone crouched in the dark, waiting for the answer.

  “Negative, sir. There’s a heavy anticollision bulkhead just for’rard of the vehicle decks, separating them from the bow compartments. No personnel hatches. All access to the bow spaces is downward through the forecastle.

  “But,” the static spattered voice continued, “he says there is a small storage compartment underneath the vehicle ramp. It’s used as a cable tier for storing the trailer tie-downs.”

  Peering around the tire, Stone noted a single man-size hatchway centered in the curved bulkhead beneath the ramp.

  “Got it, Donovan, thanks. Able Team, hold position. Charley Team, let’s check this out. Point men, go to port of that hatch on the forward bulkhead. I’
ll go to starboard. Cover men, cover us. Go!”

  The three Marines rushed silently across the gap to the forward bulk head, going to ground on either side of the hatchway. Stone had just pressed his back against the rust-gritty steel plating when the hatch gapped open and he found himself eye to eye with an Indonesian pirate at a range of barely three feet.

  Instinct screamed to whip the SABR up for a snapshot. Discipline froze every muscle in place and seized up Stone’s breathing.

  Quillain realized that he and the Bugis raider were living in two different dimensions. Thanks to his night-vision system, Stone’s world was as brightly lit as a summer twilight. The pirate stared out into a pitch darkness as deep as any night could ever be.

  Unmoving, unblinking, Stone stared into the face of the Asian, a gaunt, scarred face with high cheekbones and a cruel twist to the thin mouth. Tracking downward, Stone could also make out the short sleeve of a worn cotton shirt, a thin, wire-muscled arm, and a gnarled fist clinched around the grip of a Beretta automatic. The Bugis’s head was tilted, listening intently, responding to some trace of sound.

  After possibly a century, the face withdrew and the hatch closed again.

  Stone let his breath trickle out from between his clinched teeth. Enemy found and fixed. Now to finish them.

  Lifting a hand, he waved the two cover men over to his side of the door. Touching one of the flashbangs attached to his harness, he held up two fingers in a V Both men unclipped concussion grenades from their harnesses.

  To the Marines across the hatch from his position, he made a hand gesture like the closing of a book and received responding nods.

  In most military or quasimilitary organizations, the carrying of a pistol frequently denoted a position of authority or advanced rank. Stone theorized that the pistol carrier on the other side of the hatch was probably the leader of the pirate boarding party and the owner of the clip board stowed inside his vest. If so, he was the prizemaster so intensely desired by Amanda Garrett. Stone staked the man out for his personal attention.

  Quillain lifted his fist and pumped it once as an action notification. Then, shifting his SABR to his left hand, he reached down and tapped the butt sharply on the deck, just once.

  Slowly, the hatch creaked open again.

  For the Indonesian, it must have been a startling experience to have a hand lance out of the darkness to engulf his shirtfront. With an explosive heave, Stone yanked the pirate out of the hatchway. Hurling him sprawling to the deck, Quillain bellowed, “Do it!”

  Coordinated by training and instinct, the grenadiers hurled their flashbangs into the confines of the small storage compartment. Then the second rifle team slammed the hatch shut, bracing the watertight door closed with their shoulders. Two deep, reverberating booms, like cherry bombs set off in an oil drum, echoed through the vehicle decks, and white light leaked from around the hatch edges as the door tried to kick open.

  Another crash and flare followed as the prizemaster fired his pistol blindly at the blackness surrounding him. Then a size-twelve Danner combat boot smashed into his face. Stars burst behind the pirate’s eyes and the darkness grew even deeper.

  Following the flashbang detonations, Charlie team had rushed the interior of the storeroom, meeting no resistance. “Three more down in here, Skipper,” the team leader reported. “Bleeding from the ears but livin’.”

  “This old boy too. He didn’t really need that nose all that much any way.” Stone kicked the Beretta away from the pirate’s flaccid hand. Rolling the man over with the toe of his boot, Stone knelt and applied a pair of disposacuffs. With that accomplished, he keyed his throat mike. “Bravo Lead. We got the last of ’em secured. You can turn the lights back on. The show’s over.”

  With a riding-on-rails meticulousness, Cobra Richardson eased the Super Huey in over the Piskov’s amidships deck. Setting a single landing skid atop a ventilator housing, he held a stable hover.

  Giving a farewell wave to the helo crew, Amanda hopped down to the top of the housing, then made the longer leap to the wet decks of the Russian freighter. The RO/RO’s bos’n already had a work party sluicing the riot gas residue from the decks with a saltwater hose.

  Amanda was pleased to see that. The Piskov was rapidly becoming a functional ship again.

  Cobra’s helicopter lifted and thundered away toward the cluster of deck lights standing off the freighter’s bow. The Cunningham had arrived on scene a few minutes before. The big cruiser now loitered warily, ready to intercept and warn off any other inquisitive vessel that might approach. Beyond the Russian work details, Amanda’s own people were busy beneath the deck lights as well. Armed Marines encircled the band of captured pirates. The Bugis, drug groggy and sullen, squatted on the deck, their wrists bound behind them. Pharmacist’s mates treated the wounded while intelligence section personnel searched for documents and personal papers. Another intelligence team worked stacking captured weapons and ammunition, identifying armament types and manufacturers, and recording serial numbers.

  A third raven team worked from the Cunningham’s Rigid Inflatable Boats, examining the semisubmerged wrecks of the pirate launches moored alongside the freighter.

  Amanda armed off her flight helmet and shook out her hair. So far, so good. With a little luck, they could be out of here before first light. Looking around, she noted a familiar figure striding toward her across the deck.

  “Well done, Stone. Exceptionally well done.”

  The Marine shrugged. “Oh, pretty fair for make-it-up-as-you-go along. We got you your prisoners, including the guy I guess is the prizemaster. He hasn’t admitted the point yet, though. He hasn’t said much of anything except to cuss us out in Sanskrit or whatever.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Are you ready to transfer them to the Duke?”

  “Soon as the corpsmen are done. We’ll sling lift the stretcher cases over by helo first, then move the unwounded.”

  “Okay. Sling lift all of them by helicopter, even if it takes a little extra time.” Amanda started aft toward the deckhouse, Stone keeping at her side. “These Bugis are born seamen. If you even let them near a small boat, they may try something. On the other hand, helicopters are a bit outside of their experience. Dangling them underneath one on a cable should keep them spooked and amenable.”

  “Will do, Skipper. Anything else?”

  “Yes, status of the freighter and its crew.”

  “Pretty much good. The Russkies have a few bangs and bruises, but they seem to be a pretty rough-and-ready bunch. They already have their bridge and engine room watches reset. The ship’s in good shape too. No apparent engineering or navigational casualties and no water coming in. Most of the damage seems to be of the chipped-paint and busted glass kind.”

  “Very good indeed. Where’s her captain?”

  “In his cabin, Skipper. He’s looking forward to talking with you.”

  “That’s good. I need to talk with him.”

  Captain Teodore Petreskovitch looked the way a Russian freighter captain should, stocky and bearlike with grizzled, gray-frosted hair and beard. Clad in blue uniform trousers and a sweat-stained white shirt, he reached across his battered desk to pour three fingers of a clear liquid into the water glass set before Amanda.

  “Israeli vodka,” he said sadly, taking care with his English. “Muck from my last voyage, but I have no better. I thank you, Captain, for the saving of my ship and cargo.”

  Amanda nodded and diplomatically lifted the glass to her lips, suppressing the wince as the liquid fire burned down her throat. “Speaking on behalf of the United States Navy, we’re pleased we could help. I’m glad none of your crew were seriously injured in this event.”

  “As am I.” Captain Petreskovitch casually tossed off his own drink. “In the merchant ships, we hear more and more of the pirates returning. You come through these waters, you know sooner or later you will have no luck. These damn monkeys will come for you.”

  “How did it happen?” Amanda
was careful to keep her glass cradled in her hands to evade a refill.

  The Russian shrugged. “One minute, nothing. The next, the damn little boats are all around us, shooting across the bow with machine guns and the rockets for killing tanks. We can do nothing except stop the engines. The owners will not let us carry guns. We have nothing to fight with except the deck hoses. We can only call for help by radio and watch them crawl over the rails.

  “But then our luck returns and a most attractive American devushka, a lady, comes racing to our assistance.” Israeli vodka or not, Petreskovitch poured himself another hefty hit from the bottle. “If there could be any way we might pay you back for your rescue, only ask.”

  “Actually, Captain, there is,” Amanda replied carefully. “You see, my ship and I were not in these waters by coincidence. The decision has been made by higher powers to do something about the pirate threat. We’re going after them, and you and your crew can be of great service to us in this matter.”

  Petreskovitch slapped the desktop. “Tell us what to do and it shall be done.”

  “Essentially, what we wish you to do is nothing.” Amanda leaned forward in her chair. “Your ship is seaworthy and your crew is intact. We wish for you to get under way and continue on your voyage as if none of this had ever happened. Say nothing to anyone, not even your owners, until after you have returned to your home port. If you are contacted by the authorities concerning the distress call you sent, deny it: Say it was a hoax by someone. If there are problems about your broken cargo seals, have your agents speak with the United States embassy. Beyond that, say nothing to anyone.”

  A smile appeared in the midst of Petreskovitch’s beard. “Ah,” he nodded, “a konspiratsia. Russians understand such things, You have my word. We will deny this. It has not happened.”

  “Will you make this clear to your crew? Sailors love to talk in port, and our enemies may have ears anywhere.”

  “My crew is Russian as well,” Petreskovitch said grimly. “They will know that if one word is said out of place, its speaker will swim back to Vladivostok.”