"C'mon, Dad," she whispered. "Power through it, old man."
17
The Shandong
Coast of Georgia
Dana Holland paced her room frantically until around 2 AM. In her last communication with her contact onshore, he'd sent her a message that the team of operators should arrive between 2 AM and 4 AM, barring any unforeseen circumstances. When she'd received the message, she'd radioed him back to let him know which stateroom they should stay in and where they'd find the key. There had been no response and she had to assume he hadn’t gotten the message.
She'd passed it off as her contact being involved in some task or working with the operators, but hours later there was still nothing. She fired off several urgent messages, asking for confirmation that he'd received the information she sent, but none ever came. It left her in a nervous quandary. Had the operators been compromised? Had the operators killed her contact to guarantee secrecy? Was the operation on or off? How was she going to get the stateroom information to them? She had plenty of questions and no answers.
Dana wasn't an operator. She was an angry congressional staffer with a serious ax to grind. She had no training to fall back on, nor experience to guide her. She decided her only option was to continue as if the operation was a go. That meant she had to find a way to intercept the team when they boarded the ship.
That wasn't going to be easy. She had no idea how or where they were boarding. She also couldn't roam the ship in the random hope she'd come across them. That would draw the attention of the security detail, already a grim and suspicious group. There were only three of them on duty at night, but if she were to wander the ship for any length of time she'd probably run across them.
Then Dana recalled the message she'd sent her contact onshore, advising him that the security cameras were not being used. Just because they weren't being used didn't mean they couldn't be used. They would be perfect for what she needed, the ability to watch the decks without being spotted. With that revelation, Dana put on a bathing suit and pulled on a cover-up. If she was spotted by the guards, she'd claim that she was having difficulty sleeping and wanted to go for a late-night swim.
She quietly opened the door to her stateroom and stood there for a moment. There were no guards in the hallway and she heard no activity in any of the other rooms. The VIPs were a floor above, on the Penthouse Deck. Staffers, aides, and personal assistants were a deck lower. Even with such a small contingent of passengers, the ship still carried a full crew, but they had their own decks in another part of the ship.
Dana knew she wouldn't have normally had access to the security office. Not all support staff did. Her boss, a congresswoman for over forty years, was powerful and liked to throw her weight around. She was also what one might refer to as "high maintenance". She was constantly needing something or needing to get somewhere. She eventually demanded that Dana be given a master key so that the congresswoman's important work would not be delayed if she found herself unable to go somewhere she needed to go. The staff had gladly obliged, tired of dealing with the congresswoman.
Dana avoided the elevator, not interested in the loud dinging it made at each floor, announcing her presence. She ran up the stairs, the activity burning off some of her nervous energy. When she reached the correct floor, she cracked the door and listened. When she didn't hear anything, she poked her head out and confirmed there was no one moving about. She crept into the hall, gently shutting the door behind her, then sprinted to the security office.
She waved her master key in front of the reader and the display changed from red to green, granting her access. She hurried inside, doing her best to not make any noise. The camera system was not in the main security office but in a smaller room off to the side with its own door. There was a computer and workstation where a guard might monitor the cameras during a normal cruise.
Having seen systems like this before, Dana turned on the monitor and the multiplexer. Though the system had the ability to record to a DVR, it was not a computerized system. Dana was able to view the analog cameras as they came online without having to enter a password or log onto a computer. In seconds the monitor screen was full of tiny thumbnail images and Dana could see everything taking place in the public areas of the ship.
She watched a thickly-muscled Chinese guard smoking a cigarette as he stared over the bow of the ship. She saw another stretched out in a chaise lounge on the pool deck. Another was playing video games in the children's arcade. Everyone appeared relaxed and distracted. It was exactly how she needed them to be.
Dana watched the images for forty-five minutes, seeing no movement on the decks beyond that of the bored guards. Even after that much time had elapsed, the guards were still doing the same things they'd been doing earlier—video games, sleeping, smoking cigarettes. Finally, at a little past 3 AM, Dana was rewarded with a flicker of movement in a different thumbnail image.
She leaned forward and punched a button on the multiplexer. It scrolled through the camera images and soon the image in question filled the screen. Dana saw a figure in black fatigues climbing onto the deck and looking warily about. When the figure was satisfied there was no one around, it dropped a line over the side and began hauling gear up to the deck. Dana knew this had to be her team. Now she just had to get to them before the guards did.
18
The Shandong
Coast of Georgia
"C'mon, Dad, c'mon," Barb whispered.
Conor was two-thirds of the way up now, but moving slower. Barb understood. It had been a long paddle out there and the rope ladder was entirely an upper-body exercise. That, however, would be no consolation if they got caught. Failure was failure, regardless of the excuse.
Barb tried to force herself to calm down and focus on the things she could control. She couldn't make him climb faster and she couldn't haul his heavy ass up to the deck. All she could do was keep them safe for as long as it took for him to finish his climb. From her position behind a stack of white storage containers, she alternated between scanning her surroundings and watching her dad make his way up below her.
When the rope stopped moving for a moment, Barb raised an eyebrow. It had been rocking back and forth with the motion of Conor's climb. Had he fallen off? She leaned over the edge again and found Conor within twenty feet of the top, locked into the rope with one elbow and trying to shake loose a cramp in his other arm. She wanted to call out encouragement to him but didn't risk the noise.
She turned back to the corridor she'd been watching and was startled to find a woman standing directly in front of her. Barb flinched from the surprise, nearly sending a suppressed round into the woman, but she steeled her nerves. The woman was wearing some kind of flowing robe. She clearly wasn't a guard but what did Barb do with her now? She'd seen Barb and she'd eventually see Conor if he ever succeeded in reaching the deck.
They stood there frozen for a moment, Barb staring through her nightvision goggles at the glowing circle on the woman's center mass. The woman stared back frozen in fear, uncertain if the terrifying figure in front of her was going to pull the trigger or not.
Dana finally broke her paralysis. She raised a finger to her lips in a gesture to remain silent. She slowly reached her hand into a pocket of her robe and came out with a plastic keycard, holding it up for Barb to see. A room number had been scrawled on the back with a marker. Dana placed the card on the white plastic storage container between them, then turned on her heels and hurried off.
Barb snatched the card up, tucking it into her pocket. She heard scrabbling on the deck behind her and chanced a glance backward. Conor was at the lip of the deck, puffing like a horse, his arms trembling. Barb carefully placed her rifle on the deck and sat down. She braced a foot against a railing support and hooked one hand into the grab handle on the back of Conor's vest. She arched her back, shoved with her legs, and tugged with all her might. Seconds later, Conor was flat on his back, trying to calm his breathing. Barb used her knife to slash th
e rope ladder loose from the ship. It dropped silently into the dark water below. They were committed now, stuck on this ship until the fat lady sang.
Barb scrambled back to her feet, splitting her attention between the corridors leading in their direction and her father. After a scan of her surroundings, she hissed, "We have to move now. We've been here too long."
Still breathing hard, he mouthed, "Where?"
Barb fished the keycard from her pocket and held it up for him to see. She knew he had to be wondering where the hell it came from, but he also understood this was not the time to be discussing it. He cocked his head to read the stateroom number written on it.
"I know where that is," he whispered. "Let's try to do this in one move."
Barb flipped her nightvision out of the way. Placing her rifle on one of the plastic storage cases, she slung her pack on her back, then draped her rifle over her neck. She'd carry a dry bag in each hand, but could still flip up her rifle and get in the fight if it came to that.
Conor loaded his own body in the same manner—pack, rifle, and dry bags. "Follow me," he said, setting off. He'd studied the layout of the Shandong in the packet of materials Ricardo had given him. Although the map of the ship was printed on waterproof paper and tucked into his pocket, he was fairly certain he could get them close to their room without referring to it.
Loaded with gear, they waded out of the plastic containers that had sheltered their boarding and headed down a nearby corridor. The lighting was low but plenty bright enough to see where they were going without the nightvision. Soon they saw a sign marking a stairwell and ducked inside, careful not to make any noise with either the door or their gear.
The stairwell was fully illuminated, likely a safety feature in case of an emergency. They stood there for a moment, making sure there was no one else in the stairwell before they began descending. Conor thought their stateroom was several decks below their current position and they had a long climb ahead of them. Several times they paused to rest their legs, not wanting to be out of breath if they walked into a fight. It was hard to shoot straight when the breathing was erratic.
"This is it," Conor finally said, nodding at a sign on the wall. He dropped his gear and raised his rifle before gently tugging the door open. He poked his head out and confirmed that the long hallway was clear, then held the door open for Barb. "Go."
She slipped out the door with her load of gear, holding the door open with her foot while Conor retrieved his own load. On this deck, most of the lighting had been turned off to save power. For the length of the hallway, emergency fixtures glowed at regular intervals and exit signs glared red by stairwell doors.
Not wanting to spend any more time exposed in the hallway than necessary, Conor got his bearing from a sign on the wall and hurried in the direction of their room. "This is it," he said, stopping in front of a door.
Barb dropped her load, fished the key from her pocket, and they both held their breath as she pressed the card to the lock. There was a buzzing sound, a click from within the lock, and a green LED flashed. It worked. She gently twisted the handle and stepped inside, holding the door for Conor.
He squeezed through the opening, placed his gear on the floor, then tugged Barb's dry bags in from the hallway.
"I'm clearing the room." Barb dropped her nightvision and moved around the dark room. She checked the closet, the bathroom, and under the bed before she was comfortable.
"I think we're good," Conor announced, raising his own nightvision out of the way and flipping on the light switch. He went to the bathroom and retrieved a towel, pressing it against the base of the door to prevent their light from being seen in the hallway.
When he was done, he collapsed across the nearest bed in full battle-rattle. "I'm bloody cooked, daughter. I'm going to be sore tomorrow."
Barb began removing some of her gear, staging it beside the other bed in case she needed it in a hurry. "I didn't think your tired old ass was going to make it up that rope. You need to train more or take less strenuous assignments. Maybe go undercover in a nursing home or something."
Conor ignored the comment and sat up, letting out a sigh. "I need to get out of this wet gear or I'm going to fall asleep in it."
"You go ahead," Barb said. "I'll take first watch."
"That's a good girl. I think a watch is prudent until we learn the patterns of the ship." Conor worked the straps and buckles of his gear. It had been a long and tiring day. He kept his rifle handy but wasn't nearly so meticulous as Barb in organizing his gear. He was too exhausted.
Barb turned off the overhead light, leaving the bathroom light on and the door cracked. It cast just enough light into the room to keep her awake. She parked herself in a chair and rubbed her sore muscles. She didn't imagine there'd be much they could do in the light of day tomorrow. Maybe she'd stay awake for as long as she could, then try to sleep through the day. That would be better than being stuck in the tiny stateroom like a trapped animal.
19
The Shandong
Coast of Georgia
Conor awoke to the crinkling of an MRE packet being opened. He sat upright in bed, his sore muscles protesting. "Bloody hell, I feel like I've been beat with a stick."
"The ugly stick, maybe," Barb cracked, smiling. "And I should have known the sound of food being opened would wake you. You're like a bear smelling food from miles away."
"I am a mite famished. Expended lots of calories last night and I feel like the barrel is empty."
Barb raised an eyebrow but refrained from comment. She was eating an MRE cookie and was less than impressed. "I'm beat, but didn't think I could sleep on an empty stomach. If you're sure you're awake, I'm going to hit the hay."
"Go ahead," Conor said, grimacing as he stood and stretched, groaning when his body crackled like breaking twigs.
Barb snapped alert and held a hand up to silence Conor. Closer to his rifle than Barb was to her own gear, Conor grabbed it up and aimed for the door. He heard it now too. A rustling at the base of the door. He focused his attention on the knob but it didn't move. Then a thick manila envelope shoved the towel away from the base of the door. The two stared at it, barely breathing, ready to launch into action if someone attempted to come inside.
When there were no other signs of activity, Barb stepped to the door and peered through the peephole. "It's clear." She bent over and picked up the envelope, tossing it to Conor.
He leaned his rifle against the wall and tore the envelope open. Inside he found a note paper-clipped to a thick stack of handwritten pages. He read the note out loud.
"These are notes I've compiled on the routines of the Americans on the ship. They're creatures of habit so they stick to the same schedule nearly every day. I'd suggest you lay low during the daylight hours. I'll make contact with you this evening, hopefully around dark. By the way, I learned last night that we're headed for the Mediterranean. That's all I know."
When Conor finished with the note, he thumbed through the stack of papers attached to it.
"That's a lot of information," Barb said.
"It's intelligence we don't have to gather ourselves."
"Then I suggest you get to reading it," Barb said. "I need to take a nap before I get grumpy."
It was Conor's turn to raise an eyebrow. He'd never known Barb to not be grumpy. The child was born with a scowl on her face and had kept it for most of her life, but he kept all that to himself for matters of personal health and safety.
He laid the stack of papers on the small table by the porthole, then rummaged around through the food bag. Finding what he believed to be one of the less disgusting options, he settled into the uncomfortable chair at the table. Conor wasn't a fan of MREs but starvation made them a little more palatable. "It's fuel," he reminded himself. "Not Bojangles."
As he ate, he read through the detailed notes the asset had delivered to them. His targets included members of Congress, several cabinet members, agency heads, and two prominent lobbyists. It
was a formidable list and Conor couldn't believe it had come to this. Was the American system on such a precipice now that this was the only way to right the ship?
Typically Conor worked overseas, taking out enemies of the United States. Because some of those enemies were Americans, the government preferred to use freelance firms like Ricardo's company for the hits. They wanted freelancers because it got complicated using government employees to kill American citizens. There was always paperwork involved and that paperwork left a trail that could end up being read in a congressional hearing. There was also the possibility you'd wake up to read about it in the press one morning. Disgruntled government workers sometimes became whistleblowers, but in Conor's world there was no such thing. If you blew the whistle, your coworkers stuck a gun in your mouth and blew your whistleblower out the back of your head. Problem solved.
Each of the targets on Conor's list had their own routine. According to the notes, some headed for the gym each morning while others headed for the pool. Some started the day with Bloody Marys or mimosas and an extravagant breakfast. Most of what took place in the morning was informal. That changed midday when they came together as a group for lunch. The meal rolled into a meeting that went on for most of the afternoon.
The notes indicated these were working lunches in which the alliance assessed their progress toward the objective. While that objective wasn't spelled out in the asset's notes, Conor understood from Ricardo what the goal was. It was the same goal wealthy industrialists had outlined early in the twentieth century, which was to bring the world under a single government with one financial system. Of course, those dreaming of such a day, of a New World Order, probably pictured different partners. It wasn’t likely they imagined Saudi Arabia and China as the two companions who would help bring their goals to fruition, but they had to make do with what they had.
Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series Page 10
