Sea Of Terror (2010)

by Stephen - Deep Black 08 Coonts

  But the alternative was to let the Queen keep coming, with the New England coast now less than six hundred miles away.

  It was an alternative that simply didn't bear consideration.

  "How about it, Kathy?" he asked the woman seated at a computer console nearby. Kathy Caravaggio was one of his best handlers. "Ready to raise the stakes?"

  "We have full admin control,", she told him. "They don't know it yet, but we have control of their security systems now."

  "Do it," Rubens said.

  Security Office, Atlantis Queen 40deg 45' N, 70deg 07' W Friday, 0510 hours EST

  "What is wrong with it?" Khalid demanded.

  "Amir... I don't know. The security system appears to be running normally, but all of the security cameras have just switched off!"

  "That's impossible, unless you shut it down here!"

  "I did not, Amir! I swear!"

  "Let me see the deck displays."

  Hamud Haqqani touched a switch, frowned, then hit it again. "Sir ... we don't have those screens, either."

  Khalid felt a cold twist in his gut. The deck display screens should have been able to show him points of light for every person on board the ship--red for passengers with ID, blue for people sensed in various areas of the ship without ID, green for the hijackers and the members of the crew. If he couldn't see where the hostages were, he was losing control.

  "There was a large group of hostages in the casino, yes?"

  "Yes, Amir," Haqqani said. "Last time I looked, there were around fifty passengers and a few crew members there.. Tahir and Faruk are on the deck outside there, and El Hakim is inside the casino."

  "Are there other large gatherings of passengers?"

  "No, sir. A few in the Kleito Bar . . . four or five, perhaps. Most passengers are in their staterooms, except for the ones in the theater."

  "We may be facing an attack," Khalid said. "Get those screens working!"

  Assault Team Cougar 40deg 45' N, 70deg 06' W Friday, 0510 hours EST

  They were picking up speed. The maximum forward velocity of a standard ram-air chute is about 25 miles per hour. The team's MC-4s had been modified, however, to improve their speed in horizontal flight. They could manage about 34 miles per hour, now, which meant they were closing on the Atlantis Queen at about 14 miles per hour ... or roughly twelve knots. Four and a half regular miles was a little under four nautical miles. Four nautical miles at twelve knots--twenty minutes.

  Which meant they were getting damned close by now.

  Guided by the GPS-controlled readouts on their wrists, the strike force steadily closed on their target, now less than half a mile ahead. The Queen was running with her lights on and so made a splendid visual target.

  "Okay, Cougars One and Two," Dean said over the squad channel. The men were identified by their order in the stick. "You've got the call."

  "Cougar One. I see the Atlas Deck. I see two, repeat, two tangos close in by the windows, as expected. AK-47s and cigarettes."

  "Cougar Two, roger that. Two tangos in sight."

  "Doesn't look like they're expecting us," Cougar One, Vic Walters, added.

  One point of HAHO drops was that the parachutes opened so far from the target that the crack of unfolding fabric grabbing air couldn't be heard at the target. Another was the ability to literally fly to the target, within certain fairly broad parameters.

  "Cougar One, Two, this is Twelve," Dean said. "Take them down at your discretion."

  There was no going back now.

  Neptune Theater, Atlantis Queen 44deg IT N, 59deg 13' W

  Friday, 0511 hours EST

  "Inside!" Rashid Abdul Aziz said, nudging one of the Westerners with the muzzle of his AK-47. "Sit down and no make trouble!"

  The twelve captives meekly filed through the door and into the theater, escorted by Nejmuddin and Sadeeq, one of them, the black one, still clutching his forehead where Baqr's rifle butt had clipped him.

  Stopping in the hallway outside the theater entrance, Aziz pulled out his radio and called the bridge.

  "What is it?" Fakhet's voice replied.

  "This is Aziz. We've caught them all," Aziz told him. "We're putting them inside the theater now."

  "Any trouble?"

  "None at all."

  "Good. The Amir wants you to--" The voice broke off.

  "Bridge? Are you there?"

  There was a moment's silence, and then Fakhet's voice sounded from the radio again. "There is a ... problem," he said. "Listen. Take all of your men to Deck Nine, then aft to the casino. The Amir wants all of the people gathered there to be rounded up and moved to the theater as well!"

  "Why?" Aziz asked. "There must be fifty or sixty--"

  "Just do it, Aziz! All of our security cameras have just switched off! The Amir says there may be an attack coming at any moment!"

  Cougar One

  44deg IT N, 59deg 13' W

  Friday, 0513 hours EST

  Victor Jeffery Walters was an old hand. Forty-Height years old, now, he'd joined the Army Special Forces as soon as he'd made sergeant and eight years later had been selected for Delta Force. He'd seen action in both Afghanistan and Iraq, been promoted to staff sergeant, and finally retired after twenty-two years.

  His retirement had been illusory, however... or, at best, in name only. An NSA recruiter had approached him last year, and he'd volunteered for paramilitary service with the Deep Black program and Desk Three. Since then, he'd been training with the Cougars, keeping up his weapons skills, keeping up his jump certification.

  And now it all was paying off.

  Not that this jump was an easy one. He'd done it time after time in training, and his heart still felt like it was trying to climb up out of his throat. He'd once heard a Navy aviator friend talk about the difficulties of landing at night on an aircraft carrier ... a huge vessel that during the approach appeared to be about the same size as a postage stamp, and it was moving.

  His friend, he thought, had nothing on him. This was a lot worse.

  Through the NVG monocular he could clearly see the Atlas Pool and the large deck around it, positioned at the rounded back end of the Atlantis Queen. Light spilling from the casino inside made the deck area as bright as day; he could see the two hijackers clearly. They appeared to be relaxed, weapons slung, the red star of a burning cigarette in the mouth of each.

  Thirty feet from the Queen's taffrail, he hauled back on the brake toggles of his parachute, spilling air and speed. As he drifted forward at the uncertain edge of a stall, he pulled his H&K, which he'd released during the jump to hang by its straps from the right side of his body, up to his shoulder.

  The touch of a gloved thumb switched on the infrared laser targeting system; through his monocular, he saw the ruby-bright point of light, invisible to the naked eye, dancing across the torso of the terrorist on the right.

  "Cougar One," he whispered. "Target right."

  "Two. Target left."

  "Take 'em!"

  It was tricky taking a shot while trying to control a parachute just thirty feet from touchdown, especially with some turbulence kicking up as he flew through the cruise ship's slipstream. He had to release the parachute control toggles while in a sustained near-stall, raise his weapon, aim, and fire, all before he stalled completely and lost control. The IR laser made aiming simpler; as the red dot slipped swiftly up the tango's body, from left hip to right shoulder, Walters began squeezing off shots, the H&K's integral sound suppressor muffling each shot to a loud, hissing snap.

  The terrorist jerked backward, chin going up, hands clawing at his chest as he slammed into the glass at his back. Walters managed five shots before he dropped his weapon and grabbed the control toggles again, allowing himself to pick up airspeed once more and glide toward the open deck. To his left, Dave Yancey seemed to hover motionless in mid-air for a second or two as he continued pumping near-silent rounds into his target, then dropped his weapon as well and continued his glide in for a landing.

&
nbsp; The deck came up to meet Walters' booted feet. He misjudged his speed, though, which was a little high. He touched down running, dragging down the toggles and collapsing the ram-air chute behind him, then slammed full body into the glass doors leading into the brightly lit casino.

  Pyramid Club Casino, Atlantis Queen 40deg 45' N, 70deg 07' W Friday, 0513 hours EST

  Jerry Esterhausen jumped at the slam of something heavy hitting the door leading out to the Atlas Pool. Howorth stood and turned, trying to see, but it was dark outside and the lighting, though low, had wrecked her night vision. She thought she saw movement out there, however, a shadow in the blackness.

  And she saw the two outside guards as well, crumpled on the deck.

  The hijacker guard who'd remained inside the casino had been sitting at a chair up against the aft-starboard bulkhead. He'd started at the thump as well, and was moving toward the door to investigate.

  He was five feet from Rosie, Esterhausen's card-playing robot.

  "Jerry!" Howorth hissed. "We need a distraction! Fast!"

  "Huh?"

  "Your robot! . . ."

  Jerry typed a command into his computer, then dragged his fingertip across the touchpad. Rosie, who'd been sitting lifelessly in her kiosk, awoke suddenly, her metal arms snapping up and out, her torso spinning to face the hijacker.

  Cougar One

  Atlas Pool deck, Atlantis Queen Friday, 0518 hours EST

  Behind Walters, David Yancey stepped onto the deck alongside the swimming pool at a gentle walk, his forward velocity perfectly matched to the speed of the ship.

  "Army klutz," Yancey said. David Yancey was a former U. S. Navy SEAL.

  "Fuck you, squid!"

  Walters struggled to unhook the harnesses holding the parachute to his body As he looked up, however, he saw movement. .. and the flash of a weapon. Their last briefing had mentioned a tango inside the casino.

  And suddenly a man screamed, and Walters heard the sharp clatter of a weapon firing full auto.

  Chapter 25

  Pyramid Club Casino, Atlantis Queen Thirty-three miles south of Nantucket 40deg 451 N, 70deg 07' W Friday, 0518 hours EST

  the terrorist had turned at the noise, looking up to see Jerry Esterhausen's robot leaning toward him, arms outstretched.

  The man panicked. He screamed and the AK in his hand went off; he was holding the weapon one-handed, and the muzzle climbed sharply with the recoil, out of control. People in the club screamed, some diving for the floor as stray rounds slammed into bulkheads and the ceiling. Bullets cracked and whined, some shattering the plastic woman-shaped torso shell of the robot, some ricocheting from tooled steel. The monitor at the top of the unit exploded in flying glass.

  But as Jerry Esterhausen had pointed out on another occasion, the robot's computer brain was located in the machine's base. From across the room the engineer pressed a key and swiped his finger across the touchpad once again, and the machine's arms snapped closed like a trap, moving with mind-numbing speed, gathering in the terrified hijacker and his weapon and smashing him close against its torso in a metal embrace.

  An instant later, the glass door behind him slid open and a nightmare shape entered--all in black, the form turned monstrous by heavy clothing, combat vest, helmet, and mask. The man advanced with a submachine gun tucked up tight against his shoulder, moving as though weapon and man were one and the same.

  The terrorist gave a strangled scream, struggling against the relentless, backbreaking steel hug. The black-clad apparition pivoted slightly at the sound and fired, putting two rounds into the terrorist's head, the shots no louder than a sharp click. Spent brass tinkled and danced along the casino floor in the deathly silence that had followed the parachutist's entrance.

  44Please, sir! You're making me blush!"

  With that, a number of civilians started to rise. Someone cheered, the cheer joined by another, and then another.

  "Quiet!" Carolyn Howorth startled herself with the strength of her bellow. Her voice cut through the rising crowd noise and brought the mob to a halt. "Everyone quiet!

  "Everyone stay down!" the black apparition by the door shouted. He kept the submachine gun up against his shoulder, pivoting this way and that, giving the appearance of being a machine himself, one seeking its next target. "Everyone stay down, stay calm, and we'll get you out of this!"

  A second man in helmet, mask, and combat gear entered the open door and the two separated, putting their backs against the bulkheads to either side of the rear wall.

  "Don't shoot," Howorth called. "You got them all in here!"

  "Atlas Pool deck clear!" one of the figures said. "Casino clear! Three tangos down!"

  And another black figure touched down on the deck outside, moving too fast. He took three running steps as he tried to come to a halt and fell into one of the two hot tubs set to either side of the swimming pool.

  Security Office, Atlantis Queen 40deg 45' N, 70deg 07' W Friday, 0520 hours EST

  "In Allah's name, what is happening?" Khalid demanded. He held the radio against His ear. "Tahir! Report!" He shook the radio in frustration, then put it to his ear again. "El Hakim! Come in! This is Khalid. Talk to me!"

  There was nothing, no response but static.

  He changed channels. "Aziz! Are you there?"

  "Yes, Amir!"

  Khalid felt, first, relief at hearing the voice, followed almost at once by a deadly and cold sense of purpose. A radio failure by itself he would accept as accident--a dead battery, perhaps--but to have all three of the men guarding the stern deck area of the ship go silent at the same time that the security cameras and the shipboard monitor system switched off could not be coincidence.

  "We have lost touch with the guards at the back of the ship," he said. "We may have unwanted visitors aboard. Where are you?"

  "Grand Staircase, going up," Aziz replied. He sounded out of breath. "Deck Five!"

  "Get to the casino as quickly as you can. Watch out for an ambush!"

  "Yes, Amir!"

  "Keep me informed! Out!"

  Khalid thought for a moment more, studying the four men seated at the Security Office consoles. Beyond, the door into the IT center was open, and he could see two more men there . . . Hamud Haqqani and Ghailiani. Slipping the radio into its belt holster, Khalid strode into the IT center.

  "What has happened to the security systems?" he demanded.

  "Amir, we don't know," Haqqani said. "The main computer may have gone offline for a moment."

  "Would that turn off the security cameras?"

  "Amir, I don't knowl"

  "Ghailiani? You know these systems! What's happened?"

  Ghailiani turned in his seat, his eyes locking with Khalid's. "I don't know, either," he said. "All systems appear to be functioning normally, except for the cameras and the security scanners. We could try to reboot. That will take about twenty minutes."

  Khalid considered Ghailiani for a second. The man was . . . calm, icy calm, when everyone else in the Security-IT suite was stressed to the point of near hysteria.

  What had the man done?

  Probably nothing. Ghailiani was weak and indecisive, paralyzed by the threat to his family. He wouldn't have done anything on his own. His current calm was probably simple fatalism ... a numb acceptance that things were out of his control.

  But Khalid would definitely ask some more probing questions later, perhaps after having the men at the Millbrook safehouse work on Ghailiani's daughter for a time and send him some more photographs of the process.

  "Twenty minutes is too long," Khalid said. "You have five minutes to tell me what is happening to the security systems on this ship."

  He turned and left, walking swiftly through the Security Office and out into the Deck Eleven passageway. Through the security doors--he was relieved to see that they, at least, were still working as he swiped his key card--and up the service stairwell beyond. He emerged, seconds later, in the passageway leading to the radio room and the bridge.

>   "The Americans are continuing their transmissions, Amir," Fakhet told him as he passed the open door to the radio room. "They say they will give us whatever we want, but that we--"

  "Ignore them," Khalid snapped. He used his card to go onto the bridge. Three of his men looked at him curiously, Obeidat, Mohawal, and Abdallah. Abdul Mohawal was at the ship's wheel.

  "Come hard right!" Khalid ordered. "Steer north!"

  "Yes, Amir!"

  "Fakhet!"

  "Yes, Amir!" the radio operator called from the next compartment.

  "Call the Pacific Sandpiper. We need them!"

  "At once, Amir!"

  It wasn't yet too late.

  Cougar Twelve 40deg 45' N, 70deg 07' W Friday, 0522 hours EST

  "This is Eleven. Target is changing course," sounded in Dean's helmet receiver. "Stay with him."

  Dean saw the ship turning, but the movement was slow and ponderous. The hijackers were probably hoping to throw off the landings of any more parachutists, but a cruise ship of that size simply couldn't maneuver like a speedboat. Dean watched the silhouette of Gene Podalski, Cougar Eleven, touch down on the brightly lit pool deck now just a few hundred feet ahead. He tugged slightly at the ram-air chute's controls, bleeding off some of his forward speed, and held his breath as the deck swooped up to meet him.

  He touched down on the hard wooden planking, taking a few steps to keep his balance, then collapsed the chute behind him. The other Cougar team members crouched on the deck, either forming a defensive perimeter, moving inside, or gathering up their chutes and jump gear.

  They'd all made it! Some of the op planners, he'd known, had insisted that it would be impossible to get all of the chutists down safely onto that tiny aft deck of a moving ship. In fact, part of each man's gear included a tightly packaged, inflatable one-man raft, just in case he missed the target and ended up in the sea. It looked like Brisard had managed to fall into one of the aft deck pools, but he was the only one who'd gotten wet.