Medusa Rising

by Cindy Dees

  Aleesha made it almost to the aft staircase without incident. The electric power plant lay just beyond it. But then, as she ducked around a big, square ventilation shaft, a human shape stepped out of a doorway almost directly in front of her. Her finger flinched on the trigger as her brain did light-speed assessment. Civilian! Shit! She yanked the MP-5 up and away from the maid, who was just stepping out of what must be a laundry, based on the tall stack of towels in her arms and the steam heat emanating from behind her. The woman stared at Aleesha in frozen disbelief.

  “We’re the good guys,” Aleesha panted. “Tell all the women to arm themselves with whatever they can find and to hide!” And then she was off and running again. Who knew if the terrified woman had understood a word of Aleesha’s instructions.

  She spared a glance at her watch. Three minutes left to get those generators blown up. She skidded to a halt in front of the electrical plant. With a quick look in both directions—all clear—she ducked into the cramped room. Four large generators were bolted to concrete platforms. Perfect. If she planted charges underneath the generators, the concrete would reflect the concussion of an explosion into the steel equipment standing upon it. Tearing supplies out of her belt, she slapped blocks of C-4 under the generators and poked remote-controlled detonators into them all. If she didn’t set it off from afar she’d surely be turned into spaghetti when the explosives blew, and she didn’t have time to run a bunch of wires into the hall.

  She backed into the hallway. And froze. She heard something. Someone. She strained to make out another sound over the throbbing beat of the ship’s nearby engines. Nothing. But that had definitely been someone moving. Was it another maid heading for the laundry? A passenger looking to hide? Or maybe it was the Tango Isabella had seen in the stairwell, searching for the missing children.

  She plastered herself against the wall in a shadow. There it was again. A scraping of leather on concrete. A shoe had made that sound. Probably a male shoe. She tensed and jumped into the hallway, crouching low. A man, probably twelve feet in front of her. His weapon swung up fast, but it was his undoing that the weapon wasn’t already in a firing position. She squeezed her trigger before he could get off the shot. And the Frenchman, René, dropped to the floor, a blossom of red in place of his nose. Her bullet would have entered his skull, bouncing around inside at nearly supersonic speeds, until the mush that had been his brain finally halted the flight of lead. The guy was definitely dead.

  Oh. My. God. She’d just killed a man. It had been a kill-orbe-killed situation, and she hadn’t hesitated. There you have it, Michael. Satisfied? She reached for her mike button, faintly ill.

  “Number five down. One of the Frenchmen.” It was a macabre necessity in a scenario like this to keep careful count of how many Tangos had been eliminated. “I’m ready to blow the generators,” she added.

  “Do it,” Vanessa muttered.

  Must be terrorists nearby for her to be speaking so quietly. Aleesha backed some fifty feet down the hall. Any farther away, and she was afraid the remote control’s signal wouldn’t reach her detonators through the steel walls. But too much closer and she’d still risk being caught in the blast zone. She mashed the button in her fist. The floor jumped beneath her feet and a muffled boom shuddered through the ship. And then it went pitch-black.

  Excellent. The Medusas liked the dark. They embraced the invisibility that came with it. And she’d lay odds the terrorists weren’t nearly as prepared as her team was to handle it. She yanked out a pair of night-vision goggles and slapped them on. They weren’t a particularly high-resolution set, but the hallway jumped into sight, a study in lime green. She jogged down it, toward the midship stairs. The aft stairs should be filled with smoke and cement dust right about now, and she anticipated that whoever came down here to find out what had happened would come from farther forward. Of course, it was possible that Viktor would surmise that a saboteur had blown up the electrical room without feeling a need to verify it. Either way, she needed to get out of here and make her way up into the parts of the ship where the terrorists would be roaming.

  Time for the hornets to become the prey.

  Chapter 18

  Aleesha waited at the foot of the midship stairs for several minutes, but no one came. Eventually it occurred to her that her radios had been silent for way too long. She must be in another dead zone. She stepped a few paces to one side, and her left earpiece erupted with Viktor’s voice, barking out orders like crazy. He was sending men down to the generators and more men to the kids’ adventure area to find out where in the hell those dimwit Montfort boys were. A third group of men was dispatched to guard the bridge, and most ominous of all, the rest of the terrorists—the entire American contingent, in fact—were sent out into the ship to round up as many hostages as they could find fast. They were to bring the women to the Safari Lounge.

  Aleesha activated her throat mike but was cut off by Vanessa, transmitting in exasperation, “Dammit, Mamba, report!”

  She transmitted again, “I’m here. What’s up?”

  “I gather by the utter darkness around me that you have successfully blown up the generators?”

  “That’s an affirmative,” she replied. “Thought I’d head for the Safari Lounge.”

  “Roger, we’re converging there,” Vanessa confirmed. “My gut says those bastards are going to start shooting hostages soon. We need to get inside the restaurant and stop a bloodbath.”

  Ten Americans remained. The six Medusas would normally have no trouble knocking out a group like that, but there would likely be hundreds of women crammed in the room with the terrorists. It would be a hell of a tricky shooting gallery. She sprinted up the midship stairs; the elevators would be out, thanks to her handiwork, and besides, exiting an elevator left a person with no option but to go forward. The sprinklers made the steps slippery, and she ducked through the shower of cold water, squinting to see.

  She ran on the balls of her feet as silently as she could. That was why she heard the huffing ahead of her. Someone else was moving quickly and quietly up the stairs, trying to be stealthy. But they obviously hadn’t been taught the same methods of breath control the Medusas had. Creeping upward in a half crouch, she plastered herself to the outside wall so the Tango couldn’t see her if he glanced down the center of the stairwell.

  Another audible exhalation on the next flight up. She exhaled slowly herself, drew in one last slow, careful lungful of air and jumped around the corner. Aim high, she told herself. It was a common shooter’s mistake to aim too low when shooting up stairs and to hit the target around the knees, if at all. Male target. Hostile. She squeezed her trigger twice in quick succession. And then leaped nimbly to the side as a large, muscular body toppled straight at her. His shoulder knocked into her hard, nearly taking her down. She staggered, grabbed the handrail and managed by the skin of her teeth to keep herself from falling backward down the stairs with him. God, she was turning into quite the killer.

  “One American down in the midship stairwell,” she broadcasted to her teammates. “Nine Yankees to go.”

  “Roger,” came Vanessa’s terse reply.

  Aleesha continued her wet upward journey to the eighth floor and its large restaurant. She exited the stairwell, crouching behind a giant, potted asparagus fern beside the stairs. It looked like a damned rainforest in here. The sprinklers definitely were adding to the general chaos. Her hiding spot was across the main atrium from the double doors leading into the Safari Lounge.

  Noise erupted from her left—a man’s angry shouting accompanied by screams and cries from several women. A Tango was herding a half-dozen panicky women at gunpoint toward the restaurant. She lifted her weapon, took careful aim and pulled the trigger once. It was a head shot, high. Only way to hit him without coming dangerously close to the moving women. Of course, in the Medusas’ training, it had been commonplace, when she’d played hostage, to actually feel the air moving against her skin as bullets whizzed past, mere fractions
of an inch away.

  The guy dropped, and the women passengers froze, too horrified to scream anymore and too terrified to run.

  Aleesha stood up. “Run,” she ordered them. “Hide. And tell every woman you see to hide.”

  The women gaped at her. “Hey, aren’t you that Jamaican women who’s been helping them?” one of them asked.

  “I’m here to help you.” As the women continued to stare stupidly she added sharply, “Go. Now!”

  They finally obeyed and took off running, back to where they’d just come from. There must not have been any more Tangos down that hallway, or they’d have bolted in another direction. Aleesha jumped behind her fern again, this time putting her back to that hallway to cover the other side of the ship.

  That was why she saw the barrel of the AK-47 poke out at knee height from behind the corner of the far wall an instant before the Tango wielding it rolled into view to pop off some shots at her. It was definitely why she pulled the trigger almost before the guy made his move. He rolled right into her bullet. With his throat. His aorta spouted blood like a fountain, and she heard the horrible rasping of his breath failing to get past his crushed lar-ynx to his lungs. The guy would bleed out in a few more seconds. Another American down.

  A barrage of gunfire erupted from the hallway behind her. Crap. Those were MP-5s. The Medusas were shooting at someone. Aleesha darted to the corner and poked her periscope around it. Two Tangos backed toward her with about a dozen females huddled in a terrified mob on the other side of the terrorists, acting as shields against Vanessa and Kat. Aleesha jumped out, tapped off two half-second bursts into the terrorists’s backs, and they dropped like sacks of sand. She paused long enough to identify them. One more American and the Spaniard, Antonio. She had to stop doing that! She had to just shoot and move on, dammit! But she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help the lurch of her heart into her throat every time a Tango went down. Please God, let Michael get out of this mess alive and unharmed.

  The women passengers turned to face the new threat—her—screaming. More screaming broke out as they caught sight of the bloody, mangled corpses of their captors.

  “Quiet!” Aleesha barked in her most authoritative emergency-room voice. The women subsided, startled by the crisp order. They looked like half-drowned rats in the cascade of water.

  Vanessa chimed in, “I need all of you to go to the kitchen behind the Galaxy Room. Arm yourselves. Grab knives, meat cleavers, brooms, mops, whatever you can find. Take as much stuff as you can and pass it out to your fellow passengers. Tell every woman you see to arm herself. We’re rescuing this ship. Now. Anyone who wants to help can meet us at the Deck 10 pool. The rest of you hide.”

  The women stared in complete and utter disbelief.

  Aleesha stepped forward. “We’ve already taken out several of the bad guys, and the kids are hidden someplace safe on the ship.”

  That news seemed to perk up the women considerably.

  A movement out of the corner of her eye made Aleesha whirl around, her weapon at the ready and her finger already on the trigger.

  Crap! Isabella. She released the trigger instantly.

  She nodded at her teammate, who nodded back. Then Isabella jerked her head toward the restaurant and held up four fingers. Four Tangos inside. Aleesha turned fast and relayed the hand signals to Vanessa, who immediately flashed hand signals telling Aleesha to collect Isabella. The two of them should rush the main entrance to the restaurant while Kat and Vanessa took the side doors. Hopefully, the cries, screams and general hysteria coming from inside the restaurant had masked the sound of the gunshots out here.

  Aleesha spun and sprinted across the atrium, bent low as she passed in front of the restaurant doors. Ping. Ping. Instinctively, she zigzagged randomly, diving for cover behind her erstwhile fern as her conscious thoughts finally caught up with her in-grained training. That was gunfire. From a rifle. Probably a sniper rig up on Deck 10 shooting down over the railing at her.

  “Do you see him?” she gasped off microphone to Isabella.

  Her teammate murmured back from just behind her, “I got a muzzle flash. Assuming he doesn’t relocate before his next shot, I’ll nail him when he sticks his head up again.”

  “How many women in the restaurant?” Aleesha asked quickly.

  “Lots. I’d estimate four hundred. And I couldn’t see the terrorists when I last looked in the doors. Probably in the corners. And it’s not raining in there.”

  Isabella had already looked in the doors? Wow. She’d been busy for having just arrived up here. Aleesha quickly repeated the information to Vanessa while Isabella kept her eye plastered to the sight of her MP-5, waiting for the sniper to show himself again. It would be a split-second shot.

  Vanessa asked, “Any thoughts on how to get in there without these guys opening fire on the hostages?”

  Lord, it sucked having to freestyle a rescue like this. It went against everything in their training. They were supposed to out-train, outplan and outthink their enemies. But this was a freaking Wild, Wild West show. They had to do something outrageous, and fast, or they were going to get pinned down in this atrium, which didn’t have anywhere near enough cover to make it a good site for a shootout.

  A shot rang out beside her. And a man slumped against the railing above, blood pouring from his mouth. She jumped, startled.

  Isabella announced calmly, “Another Frenchman bites the dust. Looks like Paulo.”

  Aleesha winced. He’d been decent to her for the most part. And now he was a bloody corpse. What in the world had these men been thinking to hijack a ship like this? Didn’t they know how impossible it would be to succeed? The Medusas had to end this. Quickly. Before any innocent blood was shed.

  On cue, a truly outrageous idea popped into her head. Aleesha took a deep breath and spoke it aloud. “How about I just walk into the restaurant? I’ll stroll in and say hello to the Tangos and ask if there’s anything I can do to help. That ought to pull their attention in my direction long enough for the rest of you to get in the side doors and take them out.”

  “Too risky,” Vanessa replied.

  Arguing in the middle of an op was always a bad idea. But Vanessa was wrong. “I spent all that time cultivating these guys so I could pull off something like this. Let me do it.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll make it easy on you, Viper. I’m going in. Now. So the rest of you better get into position at the side doors to cover me and take your shots.” And with that, she stood up, tucking her MP-5 underneath the canvas beach bag that held her utility vest and belt. She pulled her hair forward over her ears and yanked the collar of her mock turtleneck up over her throat mike. When she reached the etched-glass doors of the restaurant, the madness of what she was doing hit her. Well, at least she knew she hadn’t gone nuts. Her brain had registered that this was an incredibly stupid, suicidal stunt.

  And somewhere in the back of her head she could hear Grandmama chuckling in disbelief. She’d always said Aleesha was a little bit crazy. The pot calling the kettle black….

  Jack listened in an agony of suspense as the first rescue helicopter reached the scene. The pararescue jumpers were swearing freely as they surveyed the water below. Not a good sign. They’d seen it all in their day, and to react like that, it must be an unholy mess.

  For the next several minutes, he alternately listened to the SEALs coordinating with the PJs to get the most critical guys into the copters first, and in his other ear, he listened to the Medusas formulating an impromptu plan to take back the Grand Adventure on their own. Keep talking, ladies. They’d need every ounce of teamwork and cooperation they could muster to pull this one off. If only they weren’t so damned inexperienced! If that had been his own Delta 3 team, which had been together for years and had years of combined experience in Spec Ops before they’d come to the Delta Force, he’d feel much more confident about their ability to isolate and kill the terrorists. But the Medusas were six untried women, not even officially ou
t of training, who didn’t have a lick of Special Operations experience prior to this assignment.

  As their plan unfolded, he continued to listen. He’d have interjected his own thoughts if he had any better ideas, but he didn’t. And, frankly, the Medusas had been on the scene for three days. They had a better feel for what would work against Viktor and his team than anyone else. Despite his fears and doubts, the Medusas were the most qualified to do the job.

  A phone rang in his breast pocket. He yanked it out and looked at the number on its face. Wittenauer. The general was listening to this fiasco unfold in the TOC, which had been moved to the Teddy Roosevelt that morning.

  “Go ahead,” Jack barked into the receiver.

  “I’ve ordered the Roosevelt task force to head for the Grand Adventure at top speed. It’ll be there in a little over an hour. The Teddy R’s Marines are suiting up to board the Grand Adventure and take her by force.”

  Jack frowned. It was a last-ditch maneuver, bound to get hundreds of innocents killed. It was better than letting Viktor go scot-free, but it wasn’t a hell of a lot better option. He asked, “What about the Rangers on standby in Puerto Rico? Can we launch them instead?”

  The Army had a hundred Rangers sitting on the ramp at Roosevelt Roads in eastern Puerto Rico, prepped to jump out of C-130s and make an air assault on the Grand Adventure. He’d feel better if they boarded the ship. They were more highly trained to handle an urban hostage scenario than a bunch of regular Marines who, although perfectly competent, were trained mainly at beach landings and taking over patches of dirt in combat and defending them.

  Wittenauer replied, “The winds are too high for airborne troops to jump. Thirty-five knots and gusting occasionally to sixty.” Jack winced. It would be suicidal for troops to jump into such severe conditions, not to mention they’d stand a great chance of getting blown off course and not landing on the ship anyway.